Fall Into the River
by Oisin55
Summary: "Oh, no, not Cecelia," gasped Effie Trinket as the woman from District 8 walked up to the stage after her children were torn from her. This is the woman that even Effie felt for. This is the soft-spoken, shy young girl who became one of the deadliest tributes in Hunger Games history. This is Cecelia Rheys. This is the Fifty-Seventh Annual Hunger Games.
1. Chapter 1

Cecelia:

I have the crack in the ceiling above my head memorized. I still follow it with my eyes, staring up at the dirty concrete as I lie on my back, ignoring the itching of the lumpy straw mattress beneath me. It starts at the corner just above me, racing along the wall before separating into two. One crack turns slightly and meets the wall, the other strikes out into the center of the room. One small crack breaks out, and then three more. Fifteen total cracks, and only one reaches the opposite wall. I've stared at that crack hundreds of times. I like to imagine it's a river, a mighty river that flows far away from here. I've named it, and each crack is a tributary with a name and its own story. I imagine a boat, a white wooden boat shaped like a bird with sails of silk and oars tipped with silver like the ones in Da's stories. I could sail away, far away from District 8, to who knows where. I'm sure it would be better than here, but somehow my fantasy has never quite gotten to the end. Like the crack at the end of the wall, it stops abruptly.

And then I'm back in this little room, trying not to think about District 8, or Peacekeepers or that Spindella is waiting back home. Or about the naked, sweaty man who's moaning on top of me.

He's a repeat customer. This is the twenty-seventh time he's visited me, and even with my memory his visits seem to blur together into one. At least he's not difficult. He never lasts long. All I have to do is lay back and fall into the river in my mind as he ruts away and finishes in under fifteen minutes. If it weren't for the smell of white liquor on his breath, I could almost forget he's even here.

He gives a shout and falls against me, breathing heavily. I wait until he climbs off me and stumbles about, looking for his trousers. I pull the itchy blanket over my body the moment he's off. He looks at me as he pulls his pants on, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes red and unfocused.

"Was it good for you?" he asks, somehow managing to string four coherent words together.

Men ask the stupidest questions sometimes, and that's the one I hear the most often. I give him a smile, and he returns it, allowing me to see every gap where he's lost teeth to rot or brawling. He pulls on his shirt, reties the woven finger knot that passes for a wedding band in the district, and leaves after tossing the half-hour price on my tiny bedside table. Not before leering at me a final time.

I breathe a sigh of relief and shoot a look at the electronic clock above the door. If there's one thing I'm grateful to Mr. Twenty-Seven for, it's that he left me enough time to wash up before the next customer. I throw the blanket aside, get out of the cot and stride the few steps to the sink and mirror that complete the sparse furnishings of the cell I rent. I wash my face in the tepid water, scrubbing the stench of the man from my body. I wish I had time to wash my hair, but it wouldn't have time to dry and my soft hair is something that I'm complemented on most frequently. It's something that brings money, and therefore I settle for combing it through with a horse-hair brush I keep under the mattress.

I pull on the cotton nightgown I cast aside just minutes earlier. It seems pointless, but some men insist on doing the undressing themselves. I sit on my cot, my head resting against the wall, my eyes closed until I hear the knock on the door. I take a deep breath and put a smile on my face.

"Come in."

The door opens and Britannicus Romano walks in. I knew it was him the moment he knocked. He's the only one who does, everyone else just strides in. His strong jawline and dark eyes make him look older than his years. He's in his early twenties, only a few years older than me. His Peacekeeper uniform is immaculate, as always, but he's favoring his left leg. I can tell by the way he moves that it hurts him more than he's letting on. There are scabs on the knuckles of his right fist that weren't there the last time I saw him.

"Another scuffle, Tanni? You came out on top, I assume."

He grins at me, taking years off his face, pleased at compliment. "You hard about that, Celia?"

I smile at him. "Of course I did. Everyone was talking about it," I lie, knowing it's what he wants to hear.

His smile broadens and he holds out a bouquet of wildflowers, their vibrant yellow and purple blossoms even more pronounced against the colorless walls that surround us.

"They're lovely, thank you," I lie again as I take them and lay them down on the cot.

I pull off the night shirt and lay down. Tanni joins me after pulling off his shirt, laying his head down on me and telling me the latest from the Peacekeeper barracks, from the dregs of Fog Town, and from his home in District 2. I can't fall into my river with him, he looks up at my eyes every so often and I have to meet them, smiling and nodding like I give a damn as I caress his chest. I've seen Tanni around town, he never has a spare glance for me when we pass on the street. I'm sure he has some girl waiting for him back in the District, some lover even though Peacekeepers are forbidden to marry. The Peacekeepers are some of our most regular customers, but only Tanni has time for talk. I entertain his fantasy like I do the rest, acting the pretty girlfriend who's absolutely enthralled by her handsome man in uniform. I find it more uncomfortable and irritating than Mr. Twenty Seven or most of the others. I don't know if Tanni's too much of an idiot to realize how fixed my smile is, or if he's so caught up in his fantasy that he just doesn't care.

After fifteen minutes of his chatter and puppy eyes, I have to remind him that his half-hour is running out. He finally pulls his uniform trousers off, folds them neatly, and gently pushes me down on the bed. Again, no falling into the river, Tanni likes to look me in the eyes. He leans down to kiss me, but I turn my cheek slightly and his lips instead kiss my neck and my ears until he's done.

He pulls his uniform back on, redoing the brass buttons as he picks up his one-sided conversation exactly where he left off. He leaves ten sesterces on the pile of coins on my table. He opens the door, but pauses, meeting my eyes.

"I'll see you again really soon Celia. I promise."

I give him a smile and lower my eyes in blushing modesty. He gives me one last grin before leaving. I grimace and roll my eyes before the door even closes behind him.

I don't even have time to get off the cot before the door bangs open again. A large man strides in and looks down at me. I meet his eyes only long enough to register that he's new before taking the rest of him in.

He's not from Fog Town. His clothes are too clean for that. They're also somewhat expensive. Cotton, but well stitched together. Store-bought. Auburn hair and dark skin, an unusual combination never seen in District 8. He's not from home. He walks in, and I see that his balance is ever so slightly off on the solid concrete. He moves as though he's used to a moving surface. Like a ship's deck. He's from District 4. There are only a few people in the country outside the Capitol than can move between districts. Government officials. And if he's a government official, that means he has connections with…higher powers.

I swallow, hoping my nervousness doesn't show. "Good evening, sir, What can I do for you this-"

"I'm not paying you to talk, girl," he says in a rough voice. I smile and lay back, looking up at the crack. Rough hands seize my hips and flip me over. My face is buried in the canvas of the mattress but I don't complain. At least now I don't have to smile.

Twenty minutes later I wash up for the final time. I throw my nightgown into my schoolbag and pull my brown cotton dress out from under the cot. I pull on my undergarments, breast band and the dress and tie my hair back before gathering up the sesterces in a purse. I technically still have two hours in my shift, but the past ten have been busier than usual, and I'm done. The girl who rents the room for the other twelve hours of the day obviously isn't here yet, but I don't want to leave the room a mess for her, so I flip the mattress over to the unsweaty side and gather up the scattered wildflowers before I stride out the door.

The hallway of the brothel is as dark and dimly lit as my cell. They say it was once a prison, ages and ages ago, before the Dark Days and maybe even before the Districts. Before Panem itself. Now it's half a ruin, and the other half is mostly uninhabitable, except for the wing that serves as District 8's one and only red-light house. Most of us just call it the Red. The doors along the wall are all closed, but I know that behind each is a woman and a couple men, most of us young, all of us desperate enough to spend hours here each day. Tesserae can only get you so far. I pass a few men and women in the hall. The men look away, hiding their faces like I'll run to their wives and report them. The women nod, a couple who know me by sight smile briefly as they pass. No one talks though. Talk is cheap, and no one comes to the Red to talk. Well, except for Tanni. Thinking of him, I toss the wildflowers into a bin before I reach the office.

I pause at the door, take a deep breath, and straighten my hair. I'm not nervous. Not really. Even so, I pause just a bit before knocking.

"Enter," says the woman inside.

Cora Shutter doesn't look up as I walk in. She leans over her desk, focused on the tiny personal computer in front of her. I wait, knowing better than to clear my throat or interrupt her. When she finally does look up, I feel as though my hands are as large as dinner plates and my body as delicate as an oak tree. I am assured that Cora Shutter has this effect on most people. Even though I've seen her hundreds of times, it's still impossible to not be struck by her ridiculous beauty. Her hair is still black and soft, her lips luscious and full, her body the exemplar of feminine standards. There are no wrinkles around her eyes or on her forehead. It's hard to believe that Cora is pushing fifty years old. I wonder, along with others, if Cora has used Capitol surgery to preserve her beauty beyond what would be considered 'natural.' If anyone had the money to do it, it would be her. Not that anyone would ever speculate within earshot of the Victor of the First Quarter Quell. She isn't just famous for her good looks.

"Miss Roos," she says in her deep, throaty voice as she taps at her keyboard.

"It's Rheys," I say. Cora makes no indication that she's heard.

"You still have a couple hours left of your shift," she says, looking up at me with a slight frown.

"It was a long day," I say. "I'm very tired."

"Well, it's never been said that I've forced a girl to work. That's your own choice, girl. Proceeds, please."

I empty the purse down on Cora's desk, the sesterces rolling about. She gathers them together and counts them with swift, perfectly manicured fingers.

"The rent for your room is due," she says as she pulls away a sizable amount of coins. "Plus utilities. Then my finder's fee for sending the clients your way. And there you are." She pushes a much smaller pile of coins back towards me.

I look down at it, trying to ignore the lump in my throat. It's not enough. Kerry needs new shoes and Da needs his coffee and we all need to eat.

Cora gives me one of her looks, the ones where I'm convinced she knows exactly what my thoughts are. "You still have two hours. I'm sure that's good for two or three if I recommend you."

I nod and give her a smile, the same one I give Tanni when he walks in. "Thank you, Miss Shutter."

"Make sure you stop back before you leave," she says, turning away in a clear dismissal.

I turn and walk out, closing the door behind me. I swallow the lump down, and instead of turning left towards the door back out into Fog Town, I head right back to my cell. Back to the river.

**And so it begins again. Those of you who have read "The Lumberjack and the Tree-Elf" know of my love of the Victors, especially those who ended up in the Quarter Quell. It's certainly not necessary to read "Lumberjack" in order to appreciate this, even though I may sneak in a couple references to some of my old OP's. That doesn't mean you shouldn't read it, however. That's a hint, it means you should go read it.**

**I will definitely be pushing the T rating on this one, but I think you'll forgive me as I explore the grittier side of survival in the Districts and the Hunger Games in general. It'll almost be similar to "Game of Thrones" in point of view. Half the chapters will be from Cecilia, the other half from various characters in different situations. So with that said, let's take off! And remember, reviews make me post faster, because I'm a bastard like that.**


	2. Chapter 2

Cecelia:

Two hours later, I step out into the streets of Fog Town, pulling my thread-bare scarf over my shoulders. It rained while I was in the Red, as it does nearly every day in District 8, and the streets are rivers of mud that seep into the seams of my worn shoes as I slosh through the mess. The tenements rise above on both sides, gloomy and grey in the fading light. I can hear the roars and hissing from the textile mills behind me as they pour out the smoke that gives Fog Town its name.

The streets are almost empty, the night shift at the mills started an hour ago. Nevertheless, I pull my scarf over my mouth just in case anyone I know passes by. I've kept my profession a secret from my family for months, and it's not because I'm careless. Sometimes I wonder how no one has told my father that his girl is one of Cora's whores, but the men I see are rarely those from Fog Town, and those that do come with their carefully saved sesterces are not the type that Da and Spindella would associate with.

A year has passed by since that first day, when I turned from the road to the school and ended up standing in Cora's office for the first time, shivering and barely able to get a word out. It was when Kerry had whooping cough and we didn't have enough to even pay for cough syrup. Da worked an extra-half shift for weeks and even Della consented to stitching fine embroidery in the evenings, although you could tell by her pursed lips that she despised every moment of it. It wasn't enough, it was never enough, and somehow I always knew I'd end up at the Red, but I didn't think it would be at fourteen. Cora barely glanced up at me that first time, she just passed me the contract to sign, detailing rent for my tiny room in the red, utilities and her own fee and, after confirming that I wasn't unspoiled, sent me off. A couple of older women took me aside and combed my hair that first time. One of them cried the whole time. When I asked her what was wrong, all she would say was that I was pretty, so pretty. I didn't understand why that was cause for her to cry.

I do now.

Every day in District 8 seems the same, and they blur together if you don't keep careful track of the time. But I know that it's been a year because after that first day, when I hurried to the apothecary with fifteen precious sesterces pressed in my dirty hands, I went through the town square and kept my head down as the Peacekeepers buzzed around, monitoring the construction of the reaping stage for the opening of the Hunger Games the following week. It's the same as I walk through the square now. The stage is finished though, and banners hang from the shops and office buildings and the Justice Center, adding garish streams of cover to the grey concrete. The reaping is tomorrow. Everything must be perfect. I can't help but look up at the seal of Panem fluttering in the wind from all sides. It's colder in the square, and not because of the weather. I pull my coat tighter around my shoulders.

A couple of Peacekeepers glance at me, and one of them narrows his eyes when he sees my covered face. On a hunch, I pull the scarf down and he relaxes as recognition crosses his face. He's a customer, he knows where I'm coming from. But before I can recover my face a cry comes from across the square, calling my name. I wince as a slight figure comes bounding over, ignoring the Peacekeepers as she smiles at me. Two more hurry along in her wake, but before I can identify them there's a vice-like grip around my waist and a mass of dark-brown curls buried in my shoulder.

"Cecelia! It's so good to see you! It's been forever, I've missed you!"

"Hello, Crinoline," I say as I return the smile beaming up at me.

Crin doesn't let go until her companions join her. I recognize them both as Fog Town inhabitants, but I only remember the name of one. Dolla resembles her cousin in everything but the perma-smile. She half-smiles and nods at me before her face slides back into moroseness. I've seen the other girl around Fog Town, but I've never heard her name. She's stocky and unsmiling, giving me a nod and then ignoring me to glare at the Peacekeepers who eye us.

"Cecelia, where have you been?" Crin continues on. "I haven't seen you at school _all week_. I miss you!"

I resist the urge to sigh. I haven't been at school all year, you'd think Crin would get the idea that I won't be sitting next to her in workshops and Glorious History of Panem class again any time soon, but if she's one of the most cheerful people I know then she's also one of the most oblivious.

"I've been working Crin. When things are better maybe I'll come back and we can study together again."

"Oooh, that's right, you work in the Clear now! Is everything there clean and beautiful? Do people there really eat oranges and lemons every day?"

"Can we just get out of here?" asks Dolla, and I'm grateful because if there's one thing I don't want to talk about, it's the Clear. "This place gives me the creeps. We have to be here tomorrow, I don't want to look at it now."

She leads the way out of the square, still morose. Crin rolls her eyes as she follows, no doubt forgetting that Dolla's best friend was reaped seven years ago during the Second Quarter Quell and she has enough reason as any to fear that stage.

I fall into step with the unknown stocky girl as Crin chatters away ahead of us. I glance at her for a moment. She's a couple years older than me, seventeen or eighteen. This is probably one of her last reapings. She feels my eyes on her and shoots me a glance. I turn my head just in time to see Crin to turn around.

"Are you nervous, Celia? Everyone I talked to is nervous, except the Clear kids because _their _names are only in a few times. But I'm so nervous, are you nervous, Celia?"

"No," I say, and I find that I'm mostly being truthful.

"Really?" Crin's eyes are huge and she's looking at me like I'm the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. "How can you be so _brave_, Celia? That's _wicked!_"

"Wicked is her new word for the week. Don't say it back or she will never, ever shut up" the stocky girl mutters under her breath, startling a chuckle from me.

"There are 1,194 girls in District 8 of eligible reaping age. I have twenty slips in the reaping bowl. You know what the Capitolians say. The odds are in my favor."

Crin dashes up and hugs me again as Dolla clucks her tongue impatiently behind her. "That's so _wicked_, Celia! I'll look for you tomorrow, promise."

"As long as you don't look at her on the stage," snaps the girl to my right, and Crin sticks out her tongue and marches off.

"It's only her second reaping," I say. "The fear hasn't worn off yet."

The girl looks at me as we walk and I'm struck by how empty her eyes are for a moment. "Are you truly not afraid of the reaping?"

"No," I reply. "Well, mostly no. I'm afraid that the pox will return and take me like it did my mother. I'm afraid the my little sister will attract some Peacekeeper's attention. I'm afraid my stepmother will drive my father to desperation with her nagging. I'm afraid of the Dark Days returning. There are some things I can work to change and some I can't. I have bigger things to worry about daily."

I pull my scarf tighter and the look the stocky girl gives me makes me suspect that I've given away more than I should have.

"Crin and I don't have much in common, but I'm with her on this. I wish I had your confidence."

"How many slips do you have?" I ask softly.

"Sixty-six."

My eyes widen in spite of myself. "You take out tesserae for yourself and nine others?"

She nods, and I can't help but notice the tightening of her jaw. I try to cover up the awkward moment.

"That's not really that many, not compared to some I've met. The chances are still way against you. You don't have to be afraid."

She looks at me and meets my eyes, really meets my eyes this time. "I'm always afraid, Cecelia."

The moment is broken when she looks away and snaps at Crin not to get so far ahead.

"Are you her friend or her handler?" I ask, laughing, and she grins for the first time.

"Closer to the later. I watch her with the rest of my siblings after school at my place while her mother works another half-shift. She pays us by stitching our clothes. My own mother would do it, but she's was an embroiderer for forty years, and her eyes aren't what they used to be."

I can't help but notice the hardness in her voice and we don't say anything until we turn a corner and walk down another row of tenements. Crin, Dolla and the stocky girl break off in front of one. Dolla wishes me a good evening, Crin departs with another round of smiles and hugs, and the girl nods at me as she ushers them inside.

"Good luck," I call as they disappear, and although she doesn't turn, I like to think that the strange girl knew I was talking to her more than anyone else. I still think the odds are in her favor, but then again, so does every girl and boy until they walk up onto the stage. I suddenly find myself sending a thought to the sun, hiding behind the grey of Fog Town, that her name isn't called tomorrow.

"Take those boots off, girl!" is my stepmother's greeting as I walk through the door into our tiny flat. I purse my lips and unlace my boots, careful not to spatter any mud onto the floor that Della keeps spotlessly clean. She's obsessive about keeping the flat dirt and filth free, which is impossible in the dregs of District 8. I think sometimes that she's still trapped in the first fifteen years of her life, when she lived in the tiny well-to-do area of the District that we call the Clear since it's upwind of the smog that belches out of the factories. Her father committed some offense against someone in the district with real power and Della moved down to Fog Town with her family.

The look she gives me now is the one she seems to give everyone in Fog Town, like she's still related to someone of importance.

"You're late. We ate without you. Your share is on the table. It's cold."

I sit down at the tiny table and bolt down the bowl of cold bean soup and the cracker loaf made from the tesserae grain I bring in. I hadn't realized how hungry I was and the small meal is gone before I can even care that it's cold and that my stepmother can't be bothered to reheat it. She doesn't look at me as she sweeps the floor for what I am sure is the eighth time today.

"Why does Ms. Murrack insist on keeping you so late? Are you not doing your job to satisfaction? The last thing I need is for her to be complaining around the Clear about you and putting _my _job at risk."

I take a deep breath as the hot lump of anger in my stomach simmers down. "I had more schoolwork than usual, since the reaping is tomorrow and we have off. Ms. Murrack gave me permission to stay until it was finished. I think she likes me to stay late enough to make her evening tea."

Spindella snorts. "Well, as long as you remember why you're working. It's the family that matters. A girl like you isn't going to be doing anything that requires much schoolwork, and books don't put food on the table."

I push away the empty bowl and throw my purse of sesterces on the table. "There. Make sure Kerry gets new shoes and Da gets his coffee before you spend it all. Where's Da?"

"Asleep," says Della and I push the chair away and head to the back of the flat. "I said asleep! Don't you go waking him, girl!" I ignore her.

Sure enough, my Da is laid out on the mattress in the tiny bedroom he shares with Della. He still works a shift and a half. My older brother knocked a girl up a few years back and she dumped the baby on our doorstep before disappearing back into the Clear. Da's been helping Carl and his girlfriend until they can pay their debts and get on their own feet again. The work exhausts him, but he dotes on his grandson and has never listened to a word Spindella says about him needing to focus on his own house.

"Da!" I say as I throw myself on him.

He turns over and blinks the sleep from him as he looks at me. "Hello, Angel. I've missed you."

He gives me a kiss as I curl against his chest and feel his breathing against me. My da is still handsome, with the dark hair and broad smile that Carl and I both inherited. He's my earliest memory, the rock at my back. And he's the only man I let touch me out of my own choice.

"How was Ms. Murrack's? Any new stories from the Clear?"

I smile as I begin to relate the latest piece of gossip that I made up in my mind during the walks back from the Red. It's not long before I feel a thump around my legs and look down to see Kerry grinning back at me with the ferocity that only a seven year old can muster.

"I missed you Celia!" she shouts, and when she says it my heart melts much more than it ever did when Crin says the same words. "Ma said I needed to go to bed but I wanted to stay up and see you even though tomorrow is a special day and Da's work is closed and I get to see you all day!"

I smile down at my half-sister as Da laughs. His laugh turns into a ringing cough that echoes around the small walls of the flat. I rub his chest until it abates and I give him another kiss. Da always coughs. It's like a lingering winter fever that never quite goes away, the dust and grime of the mill aggravating it just as it's about to disappear.

"I'll get some coffee," I say, but he puts his hands around my shoulders and rubs, keeping me by him."

"Della will bring some," he says, and sure enough she appears in a few minutes, a chipped mug in her hand. She passes it over to Da without looking directly at him. She purses her lips as she glances at her husband, daughter, and step-daughter all piled on her mattress before finally glaring at me.

"Make sure you wake up early enough tomorrow to fill the bath before I leave. I washed and pressed your reaping dress and polished your shoes, so don't be dirtying them before tomorrow. I'm the Wexford's servant, not yours. Kerry, to bed."

"Ma," Kerry pouts, jutting her lip out. "I want to hear stories!"

"Now, Kerry!"

"Della, she can stay for a little while," says Da as he takes another sip of coffee.

Della glares at him, and then at me as if it's my fault she didn't get her way. "Fine. But not loudly. Some of us do still have to work tomorrow."

She marches off before I say something I shouldn't about how her job as a maid to one of the only wealthy district families must be so taxing for her. I'm grateful she's gone. I don't want to talk about the Clear with her because she's under the impression that I work a few streets down and she would know nothing I say is the truth. I used to worry that she would notice that we never see each other despite how close her job and my 'after school job' are, but my stepmother is so stupid she's never questioned my lies over the past year as long as I put rattling coins on the table.

I lay back down, my head on my father's chest, Kerry's on my knees, and start talking. For the rest of the night, this is better than falling into the river ever could be. This is home. And Della might be the thorn in my side, but at least she keeps the mattress clean. Small blessings.

**Next week will be the reaping, and Celilia will finally have a reason to worry. What do you think about my take on the enigmatic Victor thus far? If you read the chapter, please at least drop a line letting me know what you think! Your reviews keep me writing! Thanks to Peetaismydreamman, Oxenstierna D. Yuki-Rin, and Radio Free Death for their reviews.**


	3. Chapter 3

Cora:

Once again, the prep girl sent by the Capitol is entirely incompetent. I have my doubts she even knows what 'Beauty Base Zero' is, much less how to make a woman look halfway decent for national television. She chatters away as she does my make-up, about the Games, fashion, food and a hundred names of inconsequential people. If her hands worked as fast as her mouth, I would have been out of here an hour ago.

"Just leave it," I snap as Casilla – Camilla? - looks around for the nail polish for the fifth time. "The cameras will be focused on the tributes, not my fingernails. Just bring a pair of shoes from upstairs with heels that don't qualify as a deadly hazard and get out of my sight."

The prep girl says something dithering that I ignore before she slips away. I make a couple adjustments to my make-up in the mirror before she returns with a pair of silver heels. I suppose I should be grateful. The heels are only five inches instead of the eight that are the current trend in the Capitol. I snatch them away and pull them on before positively fleeing out the door.

It's a rare sunny day in District 8, and the sunlight dancing on the reflecting pool in the middle of the Victor's Village makes the place appear to be actually pleasant. It's a shame, really, that no one else is here to appreciate it. Ten of the twelve houses stand empty, as they have for fifty-seven years. The one directly across from mine has had an occupant for more than four decades, but it's as dark and silent as the others. Woof must already be at the town center. Prep is so much easier for men. Most things are.

A black car is waiting for me outside. The driver is clearly a district man, and he mutters my name as he holds the door open. He's older than I, and like most people of his age in the district he doesn't make eye contact. As we pull away and start down the road into Fog Town, I find myself wondering vaguely if he voted for me all those years ago. I shake the thought away. It doesn't matter.

The streets are deserted of course, even the Red sits quiet and abandoned. The noise of the crowd increases as we pull through Fog Town towards the square where the reaping is held every year. A few stragglers hurry along as we pass, knowing this is one event to which they dare not be late. We reach the side streets where those who cannot fit into the square are assembled to watch the reaping on the massive screens assembled almost overnight by the Capitol technicians. I abandon the car at this point to walk the rest of the way to the square. The walk is easy despite the rabble. Those who glance at me immediately step aside to let me pass. The few who are willing to meet my eyes are all too young to remember the reaping of the First Quarter Quell.

I manage to climb onto the reaping stage before the clock strikes 11:30 There are several hard-backed chairs for the district officials, visiting Capitolians, and the Victors. I take out a small make-up case and flip it open, using the pretext of adjusting my lipstick to let my eyes sweep the square. I don't know why I bother. It's the same view I've had the previous thirty-one times I've been up here. Most of the district's 20,000 people are crammed into the square like cattle, all lowing and milling about. Those eligible for the reaping are assembled in the pens according to age, and they resemble sheep going to the slaughter so much that for a moment I think I'm in District 10. Most of them are dark haired, all of them in clean clothes and polished shoes that makes them look even shabbier than usual compared to the bright flame-colored dress I'm wearing and the mayor's immaculate blue suit. And we're nothing in comparison to the Capitol people in attendance. Speaking of which…

"Cora Shutter! I almost thought you weren't going to make it!"

A woman of indeterminate age and possible color-blindness trips towards me. I sigh as I stand to greet our Capitol escort. Despite my heels she's still nearly a head taller than me, not including the monstrosity sitting upon her purple curls that she has the nerve to call a hat. The hat and coiffure are matched by her purple lipstick and deep plum suit. I'm not sure which is more shocking, that she's colored the skin around her eyes purple to give the impression that a raccoon got friendly with a jar of grape jam, or that she thought that bright orange heels should even be in the same district as her suit, never mind on the same person.

Normally I'm content to leave frank appraisals of the Capitol's bizarre fashion culture to a friend of mine, but it's unusually difficult for me to smile civilly and kiss Agrippina Flutter on both cheeks.

"Yes, I didn't know if you were going to be on time, but then I thought to myself, surely Cora won't forget just how important today is. Surely Cora of all people knows just how much her tribute will be depending on her, how important it is to give everyone back home the best first impression of this year's team. Cora wouldn't dream of being late when she knows that the thirty-second year is always the lucky one!"

"And you were right, Agrippina," I say, only mildly surprised that the claws have come out this early. "I'm pleased to add 'punctual' to the words that describe me, along with beautiful, classy, resourceful, well-cultured, and deadly. Speaking of first impressions, the new look is certainly…startling. Where did you get such a lovely suit? It looks like Cassius Grey."

As intended, Agrippina's face twists at the suggestion that she would set foot in a knock-off boutique like Cassius Grey. "It's Aurelia, actually," she hisses through her smile. "So are the shoes. Your dress is stunning as always, Cora. I don't recognize the work, so it must have been made here in your charming little _district_. Did a new shop open up in the Clear?"

I let myself trill a musical little laugh. "Oh heavens no. It's Madame Lucia. One of a kind."

Agrippina's eyes narrow and I know I've won this round. "It looks like the mayor is just about ready to start. I'll see you on the train with this year's lucky tributes, Ms. _Slutter_."

I'm not entirely sure I keep the snarl from my face as she turns away. I sit down on my chair and cross my arms, knowing that I look much more like a sullen teenager than is appropriate for a woman of my age and status and choosing for a moment not to care.

"You shouldn't egg her on, Cora."

I turn to the man sitting next to me and my face softens. District 8's only other Victor, Woof, is looking at me with those baleful eyes that always give me the impression of one of the basset hounds the escort from District 5 is so fond of. His skin is a little more weathered, his hair a bit more silver, but his back is straight and his body as strong as always. Now he looks at me in that way he has, no expression on his face except for the mixture of disapproval and amusement in his eyes.

"Agrippina may be Capitol, but she's got connections in the city. Connections that our tributes will need if they get far enough in the Games this year. So don't give her more cause for animosity than you usually do."

"It's one of the few pleasures I have in this life," I mutter, uncrossing my arms as I give him a smile. "I've had to endure Agrippina Flutter for almost twenty years. Allusions to her lack of taste and status are the only things that keep me from ripping her limb from limb, so grant me my small amusements."

"Sometimes I think you never left that arena," Woof says as he looks back out into the crowd.

I'm spared having to respond by the chiming of the clock on the tower of the Justice Building far above us. The crowd grows silent, the tension in the air rises like a heat wave until I almost think I can taste the fear rising in waves. The mayor rises, welcomes the assembled crowd and Capitol guests and begins reading the Treaty of Treason in clear, clipped tones. He's new, this is only his third year as mayor, and he's still under the impression that he needs to read the Treaty in such a way that people will pay attention to. I look to my left and see that Woof has already closed his eyes.

The district crowd likewise pays little attention to the man on the podium, most of them looking towards the pens with roaming eyes, searching for children and siblings and friends. Only those for whom the reaping is a matter of life and death are focused on the stage, not on the diminutive man reading the Treaty but at the two glass balls that hold thousands and thousands of tiny slips of paper.

It's so much like my own reaping, and yet so different. There were more banners, more cameras, more pomp for the very first Quell. And the reaping balls weren't overflowing either. There was just one slip in each bowl, each one with a name that had been selected by the very district I sit in now. One boy and one girl who went into the Hunger Games not because a woman in an eye-watering suit plucked a name by chance, but because each man and woman sat around for three months, determining who deserved life the least, conversing and conspiring to send in anyone but their own children. A boy and a girl whose deaths would be the least painful, who mattered little. Whose death would bring some measure of revenge.

Only the girl came back.

I bite my lip, pushing the seventeen-year-old girl who was struck dumb with terror back down. That girl is gone. As dead as the thirty-one tributes she's mentored since then. Fortunately the mayor has finally finished his speech and is introducing Agrippina. I can feel Woof coming back to attention beside me. I force my mind back to the present as Agrippina steps up to the microphone, smiling and waving like one of the vapid models in a Capitol fashion show.

"Welcome, welcome one and all to the start of the Fifty Seventh Annual Hunger Games. Happy Hunger Games to you all, and may the odds be ever in your favor! It's so wonderful to be back here in District Eight to see all my friends both here and out there!" She blows two kisses to the crowd and I think I taste vomit in my mouth for a moment. "And a very special welcome to all our eligible tributes! You all look so excited, so tense! It's a very exciting day for you all! Which of you will be our brave tributes competing this year? Will it be you?" – she points to a girl in the eighteen year old section who nearly faints – "or you?" – the boy she gestures at has a remarkably similar reaction. "It's time to find out! Drumroll please, and fingers crossed!"

I feel a surge of disgust as Agrippina strolls towards the reaping balls. While it's true that most of the Capitol citizenry think of us as nearly subhuman, Agrippina brings a whole new level of humiliation to the event. Most of the common Capitol cows are oblivious to the fact that we don't enjoy the Games as much as they do, but our escort has long ago convinced me that she knows exactly what she's doing and that she enjoys it immensely.

"Let's change things up a bit and start with the boys this year!"

Woof sits up straighter in his chair. He's staring into the crowd, no doubt hoping for someone who at least has the ability to get past the bloodbath, something that hasn't been managed by the male tribute from 8 in fifteen years.

"Loomer Twall!"

The crowd goes silent. Deathly silent. The charge hangs in the air for a moment and then at least half the district lets out a gasp of shock that breaks into hushed muttering. Then the first shocked scream rings through the air, followed by another, relatives realizing that one of their own already has one foot in the casket.

There's a bit of confusion on stage as the chosen boy fails to appear. Agrippina repeats the name, trilling for the lucky boy to come forward. Peacekeepers consult with the table where the eligible children checked in earlier, searching for the name and then stepping into the sixteen year old section. I expect them to pull out a sniveling boy, no doubt from Fog Town, crying for his mother and forcing the Peacekeepers to half-drag him onto the stage while eliminating any chance for sponsors in one go. But when two men in white uniforms lead the boy out with uncharacteristic gentleness my heart sinks even lower. The reason for the crowd's displeasure is immediately apparent. The boy is grinning and clapping his hands, and when one of the Peacekeepers says something to him he repeats the last words with a laugh. The boy is simple-minded, that's plain to see, and plainer that he won't be coming back to District 8 in anything but a wooden box.

I look at Woof, who's face is a set as stone. "I'm sorry," I whisper. He gives me a curt nod, his hands clenching his seat like it's a Career's neck.

I can't even look at the boy as he's led up onto the stage and I find myself pleading silently that Agrippina shows some sensitivity for once in her life. I don't know why I bother.

"Hello, handsome! Welcome, welcome! You must be so excited. What's your name?"

"I'm Loomer, and I'm…I'm sixteen! And I get to go see the pretty buildings and eat oranges every day because I won the game!"

"Well, you haven't won the Games yet, but there will certainly be oranges and lots of other lovely things to eat, and there are so many pretty buildings you're going to see! You'll love my home, Loomer, even if it's just for a short time. Now go stand over there with Woof, there's a good lad!"

Woof is already standing. He puts his hands on the boy's shoulders and says something to him that makes the boy grin and clap his hands again.

"Let's have a big round of applause for our lucky tribute, Loomer Twall!"

I wonder how even the terrible woman at the microphone can expect people to clap for the last person in the district who deserves this sort of fate. But the crowd knows what's expected and there's a smattering of applause. The sound makes Loomer laugh again and clap harder, and the crowd claps with him, the applause getting louder as the district says good-bye to the simple boy in the only way they can.

"And now, for the moment we've all been waiting for. The girls!"

The crowd barely has time to draw a bated breath as Agrippina strolls over to the second bowl and pulls a slip from deep within.

"Congratulations to Miss…Cecelia Rheys!"

"NO!"

The man's voice echoes throughout the square. "No! Celia, no! Not my daughter! Not my daughter, you can't take my girl!"

I find the man in the crowd, struggling as two others attempt to prevent him from running up to the stage himself. Several Peacekeepers move forward, but I know they won't hurt the man. Family reactions mean higher ratings, and sure enough camera crews are already rushing forward to focus on the thrashing, crying man. Four men are now holding him back, and a sour-looking woman is whispering into his ear, but it's not until a tiny, clearly malnourished girl clutches his legs that he picks her up and shakes with grief as she sobs into his shoulder.

I try to find the girl in the crowd and receive a start when I realize she's already on the stage, standing next to me and looking out towards what clearly is her family. My first thought is gratitude that she's at least more self-controlled than her father. There are no tears, no shaking, and I almost want to shake her hand along with Agrippina and congratulate her on being the first girl tribute in five years to avoid hysterics.

And then she turns and looks at me with eyes as dark as coal and I exhale in a hiss. She's one of my girls. The fifteen year old, the one with more regulars than girls who have been with me twice as long. Cecelia Rheys. She's one of my best, and I'm suddenly filled with a surge of anger that the Capitol is taking her away from me.

"Pleased to see you again, Miss Shutter," she says with the familiar bob of her head.

"It's Cora," I say, distracted. "My tributes call me Cora."

The girl ducks her head and I want to slap her. If she can't find the courage to call me by my first name, she'll never last in the arena. I take a deep sigh. It'll be one of those years again. The parade, the training, the interviews and the planning. All this work for two more cannons at the bloodbath. Or hunted down by the Careers a couple of days in if we get lucky. It's almost better that way. If there's one thing District 8 has in common, from the Victors down to the dirtiest slum child in Fog Town, it's that we don't get our hopes up.

"Tributes, shake hands!"

Cecelia steps forwards and takes one of Loomer's hands. She shakes it as he grins at her and starts clapping again. Peacekeepers lead the two unfortunates into the Justice Building to say their good-byes. The square is already half empty, the rest of the district going home to eat a special meal and celebrate their children's safety for another year.

I walk over to Woof and set my head down on his shoulder. "The first drink at Samson's is on me," I say.

He doesn't reply except to reach over and squeeze my shoulder.

**There's the reaping. I've always wanted to write one from the other side of the stage, and now I got my chance. Cora is one of my favorite OC's, I've been planning her for a long time.**

**My apologies to everyone for misspelling Cecelia's name. I had a childhood friend named Cecilia, and they just blended together in my mind. Rest assured, this has been remedied thanks to my sharp eyed readers. On another note, I want to assure everyone that I'll be treating Loomer's mental disability with as much respect and taste as I can without shying away from what the Hunger Games is all about. Thanks as always to my reviewers: mintjellyfish, Spaidel, Oxenstierna D. Yuki-Rin, BR2607, and cupcake.**


	4. Chapter 4

Cecelia:

I can't stop my hands from trembling. They won't stop. I bite my lip and tell myself to take deep breaths, deep breaths, and then I taste blood in my mouth as I bite too deep. I grasp my dress in both my hands but that only makes my shoulders shake and now my vision is blurred by tears or raw fear, I don't know anymore, and I hear a voice screaming like tortured animal and I realize that it's mine.

"No, no, no! Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT!"

And I scream until I don't have breath left in my breast, until my voice cracks, until I collapse onto the couch, breathing in the scent of dust and velvet.

And my hands still shake.

I look at the clock on the wall. I've been in here for two minutes and forever. I can't make it twenty minutes past my reaping without having an emotional breakdown. How, how am I going to survive the week ahead, the parade and the prep and the training before the Games?

The Games. My hands shake harder. Was it just yesterday that I walked through the square with Crin and Dolla and the girl whose name I can't remember, if I ever knew it? I told them that I wasn't nervous, that the reaping didn't scare me. My words seem so ridiculous that I let out a bark of laughter that I'm sure sounds half-crazed.

I close my eyes and tell myself to get a grip, that I'm not doing myself any favors. But everything, from the pinch of my shoes to the thrumming sound coming from the vents near the ceiling is threatening to send me into another cascade of tears, and I can't afford that anymore. Not when my family is on their way to see me, and I will not let their last memories of their sister and daughter be one of tears and hysterics. I will not. So I close my eyes and do what I have done every day for the past year and fall into my river.

I float down the river in my mind, casting away all thoughts and feeling, focusing on the slowly-moving water and forests on the shore. The silver boat meanders down the current, the soft sunlight dancing on the silken sails and ropes of pearls. It's a scene I have created for myself so many times that it blurs into a hazy sort of reality, and when I lift my face to the sun I can almost feel the warmth.

But I cannot stay here. I must return to District 8. I don't open my eyes yet, but I start to let the room in the Justice Building back in, oh so very slowly. The first thing I notice is the air. It smells different. It _feels_ different. It takes me a moment to realize that it's because the Justice Building is in the Clear, and despite my lies of the past year, I've never actually been up here. The smog and filth that creep into everything in Fog Town isn't a part of this place, and somehow every breath I take is lighter. Cleaner. More alive.

Slowly, bits at a time, I open my eyes. The room in the Justice Building is very beautiful. The walls are paneled in a dark wood, no doubt imported from District 7. I know very little about the other districts, the Capitol makes sure we are purposely ignorant of our fellow oppressed, but the district trades are one of the first things we learn in school. I make a game of finding small pieces of the other districts around the room. The golden-gilt clock above the fireplace is from 1. The marble mantle of the fireplace was mined in two. The fruit in the silver bowl was grown in 11. A gadget on the wall that monitors room temperature and security is no doubt from 3. The coal in the bucket by the fireplace is from 12. But the true marvel of the room are the tapestries. They are the pride of District 8, and the ones in this room were no doubt the work of dozens of hands and thousands of hours of weaving and embroidery. They show the history of Panem, or at least the parts that district people are permitted to know. I'm staring at the one opposite the fireplace, marveling at how the firebombing of District 13 could be rendered in such a beautiful way, when the door opens behind me.

I nearly throw myself into Carl's arms as he walks in. My older brother's chest is trembling and it's all I can do to keep the tears from pouring out again. The river flows through me, and my eyes stay dry.

"Celia," he whispers. "I didn't…I can't…I don't…"

"Shut up, Mutt-face" I say and he laughs at the nickname I haven't used since I was five.

He takes me and holds me at arm's length, staring deep into my face before leading me to the couch and sitting me down.

"Twine and Cole?" I ask, registering for the first time that my brother's girlfriend and young son didn't come with him.

"She had to take Cole home. He was howling when he saw you on the stage and saw Da…break down. She wishes you good luck and sends her love, of course."

I nod, choosing not to care whether Cole was really throwing a temper tantrum or if Twine just didn't want to face a tribute. I've known a couple girls who have been sent over the years, only acquaintances, and the thought of visiting them before they left was enough to turn my stomach.

Carl takes my chin in his hand and gently lifts my face up to meet his dark eyes. "You can win this, Celia. You can do it, I_ know_ you can!"

"Carl," I whisper, and I jump when he leaps up and stands over me, glowering in anger.

"No!" he shouts. "You're not giving up. You don't get to give up! You're going to fight, Celia. You can do this. You're crazy smart, you always have been. You're beautiful, and the Capitol likes beautiful things. They have to love you. You have to make them love you! You have to do this, Celia."

"Carl, stop, please," I whisper, not because he's angry but because the raw emotion on his face is drawing out the tears and the river can only do so much.

He kneels down in front of me and puts his hands on my shoulders. "It's Da, Celia. You love him, we all do, but I know him, I know him better than almost anyone. After Ma died, he nearly lost it. He would have lost it if he didn't have you and I. Celia, he's got Kerry, and he's got Della, but you're his baby. He can't do this if you don't fight. He has to see you fighting, Cecelia, and that's why you can't give up. Not now. Not here.

"Carl…Da…" I close my eyes.

"Promise me, Celia."

The door opens and two Peacekeepers walk in. Carl stands and they put hands on his shoulders and back, forcing him out of the room.

He turns his head and shouts. "Promise me, Celia! Promise me!"

I can't get the words out, I can't say anything until I'm screaming "I promise! I promise!" but by then only the heavy door can hear me.

The same door opens almost immediately and this time there's no holding back as Kerry wraps her arms around my waste and Da wraps his around my shoulders and somehow we all end up on the couch together, arms wrapped around each other. I sob and sob and sob, and I'm matched by my father, whose whole body is shaking. I don't need to fall into the river here, Da and Kerry are my river, they are my refuge. And even though there are some things they cannot keep me safe from, I hold them in my arms and draw my strength from them.

Da looks at me once, as though he's about to speak, and I shake my head. I don't want him to say anything. I don't want good-byes, I don't want apologies or lamentations for time and opportunities lost. Right now, I just want my father with me. I want to be held in the arms that cradled me from my earliest memories, the hands that tickled and taught me, the eyes that loved me.

"I love you, Da," I whisper, and his shaking turns into upheavals.

Kerry climbs up onto my lap. "Will you tell me a story, Celia?" she asks in a voice that only barely shakes, and my heart breaks open at the courage she's trying to show.

"Of course I will," I say as I wrap my arm around her and stroke her dark hair. "Once upon a time, there were four children who had to run away from a war."

"Was it a bad war?" asks Kerry in a small voice.

"A very bad war. But the four children were good and brave, and they weren't afraid. They fled to a land filled with magic and good creatures, where animals talked and trees danced."

"But they didn't, did they? They didn't dance."

"No, because an evil witch kept the whole land under a spell of ice and snow. But the four children were so good and so brave that they defeated the queen and brought peace to the whole land. And even though one of their friends died, they never, ever gave up. And that's why they won."

Kerry looks up at me with her huge eyes. "And did they get rid of all the snow, Celia?"

"Yes Kerry," I say as my voice breaks. "They got rid of all the Snow. Forever and ever and ever."

But there are no forevers, and the door opens up and the Peacekeepers walk in again. Kerry screams as they tear her off my lap and Da won't let go of me, and I finally have to scream at him that they're taking Kerry away and he has to stay with her before his death grip on me loosens. I fall back onto the couch and stare straight ahead so I don't have to see his last look before the door closes.

I stand and wipe my face, wishing I had a sink like back in my tiny cell in the Red. I stop, frozen, as it hits me. The Red. I will never go back there again. Whether I come back to District 8 in a wooden box, or by some insane chance or fate I come back as a Victor, I will never step foot in that filthy, hated place again. The desire to laugh, to whoop, to cheer rises in me, and it collides painfully with the grief and sorrow and anger, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry or scream anymore. So I settle for blowing my nose on the back of the District 13 tapestry and flipping the corner down to hide the evidence.

It's only when I hear footsteps behind me that I realize the door must have opened again. I didn't even hear it. My whole family has already come to visit, besides Spindella, and she's no doubt celebrating the fact that I'll never trek dirt onto her floors again. I have no idea who else would come, and it's a shock when I turn and see the stocky girl from the square yesterday, the one who watches Crin after school.

"Cecelia Rheys. I'm sorry this happened to you."

I nod, and sit back on the couch. The girl is still dressed in her reaping dress, which looks awkward against her strong frame. I can tell that she feels much more comfortable in the work overalls worn by the factory laborers. Her face is still streaked with the soot of Fog Town. It matches the hair that she's pulled back into a tight bun, in a perverse sort of way.

"Crinoline? And Dolla?" I ask before realizing what a stupid question it is.

"They went home with their families. They were both very upset to see you on the stage. Crin especially." For the first time she shows some semblance of emotion as a small grin tugs at her face. "Are you still not afraid of the reaping, Cecelia?"

I meet her eyes. "I'm more like you than you think. I'm always afraid."

"I will help you, in any way I can," says the girl as she sits down next to me.

I look at her, unable to keep the accusation from my voice. "Why would you do that? Why are you even here? What am I to you?"

"You are a representative of my district and my home in the Hunger Games. How could I not help you?"

She takes my hand in hers and continues. "Cecelia Rheys. I swear to you know, that if I can aid you in this fight in any way, I will. Whether or not it's a few coins in sponsorship or an interview on your behalf, I and everyone like me will do what we can. If you return a Victor, I will stand by you, shoulder to shoulder, no matter what may happen in the arena. If you return in a box, I will fight to my last breath to avenge your death."

I gasp in shock. "Shut up, shut up," I hiss. "Do you think it's safe to say things like that here? Anywhere? They always here, they always know!"

"Let them," says the girl with a dismissive nod around the room. "Do you think they haven't heard worse in fifty-seven years? I'm a grief-stricken friend, I'm not responsible for what I'm saying."

"But you're not a friend! I don't even know you!" I narrow my eyes. "Do you come and say this to every tribute who goes to the Games?"

She looks at me with eyes of clear forest green, the only part of her that could be called beautiful. "I have visited every tribute since I was ten years old."

I have no response to that except to squeeze her hand. Finally, I think of something to say.

"Tell my family I love them. Tell them I said I was sorry when I…when I fall."

"Tell them yourself when you get home," she says, her voice harsh. "Of every tribute I've visited, you're the one I would put money on. You have something, Cecelia Rheys. Something I can't point out exactly, but it may just put you on the Victor's Throne. If you play the game."

"It's what I don't have that matters. I don't have training. I'm not from One, Two, or Four, I can't even use an ax like Seven or a scythe like Nine. How can I even-"

"Seeder Crue. Nolan DeNaro. Haymitch Abernathy. Blight Gavin. Cora Shutter." The names of the past Victors drop from her lips like the toll of a bell. "Which of these had what you mentioned? And which of them came home?"

The door opens and she stands before the Peacekeepers can pull her out.

"Wait!" I shout before the door closes. "I don't – I don't even – what's your name?"

She gives a glance back as the door closes. "My friends call me Paylor," she says, and then she's gone. I'm left thinking how unfair it is to finally make a real friend a week before I die.

I don't look up when the door opens for the fourth time. I listen to the shoes walk across the fine carpet, to the scuffle as a chair is pulled to face me, and it's only when she tells me to look at her that I raise my head and look at the thin, pinched face of my stepmother.

"You're a mess," she says in distaste. "You should have kept your tears for the train. There are cameras waiting outside as we speak."

I sigh as I gather words that somewhat resemble civility. "What are you doing here, Della?" I ask. So much for civility.

"You're not stupid, Cecelia," she snaps. "Now is not the time to start acting like it. Not until you're around your fellow tributes. Then it will be prudent to hide the scope of your intelligence so they think of you as another terrified, idiot slum girl."

"You mean, exactly what you've always thought of me, Della?" I ask, and I'm surprised that I'm able to keep the anger from my voice.

"I'm not here to argue. So you can cut that tone right now. I'm here to help you plan how to get you out of that arena and back home."

I sit back, sure that the shock is evident on my face. "I didn't realize you cared so much."

"Of course I care, stupid girl. You may be a temperamental child, but you're fifteen and we all were at that age. So cut the surliness and listen up. You're beautiful. You always have been. You can use that."

I curl my lip and cross my arms. "Is that all? Carl said the same thing."

"I'm sure he did. I'm also sure he was referring to the Capitol. I am not. Not entirely. Remember that some of the tributes, the most dangerous ones, are more men than boys. You can use that. Make them think twice before killing you and you can seize that opportunity. Or get one of them to trust you, to be your protector before you turn on him."

I look at my stepmother as if seeing her for the first time. "What are you suggesting. That…that I _seduce_ the other tributes?"

"Of course," she says without meeting my eyes. "By all accounts you're already very good at it."

It takes a few seconds for the enormity of that statement to hit me, and when it does it's as if a mountain has fallen onto my shoulders. I stand and look down at Della.

"You knew," I whisper. "You knew all along."

"Of course I knew!" Della says. "I knew from the first day when you walked into the Red and Cora came straight to me to tell me you were there. How do you think your father never found out? I've been lying to him as much as you. Why do you think you never got someone who enjoyed violence? Because Cora knew she'd have me to answer to if you ever came back from that place with a mark on your body."

I'm standing as if the blood in my veins has turned to streams of fire. "You knew all along. You knew. And you still let me do it."

"If I had forbidden it, you would have done it anyway just to spite me. So don't deny it. And you know why I let you do it. We needed the money."

"Oh yes. The money. It's always about the money for you!" I swing my arm out as I pace the room, sending a vase to shatter against the wall. Della doesn't even blink. "Was Fog Town just too dirty, too poor for you? You had to mug and grub and do anything, let anyone do anything, for a few more sesterces? When were you going to send Kerry to the Red? Or is that too precious for your _real _daughter?"

"You know nothing, Cecelia."

"I know that you're a vicious, heartless bitch."

"Your father is dying."

If there was a mountain on my shoulders, it's collapsed. If there was fire in my veins, it's turned to icicles.

"What? Da is..."

"He's dying Cecelia. He's dying and there's nothing I can do for him. I've…I've tried." For the first time her voice breaks. "I've tried everything. Every medicine we can afford. I've kept everything clean. Nothing is helping. It's from the factories, the smog is in his lungs. We can't do anything."

I want to cry, I want to cry so badly, but there is nothing left. "Does he know?" I ask.

"Of course. But your father is a great actor. Where do you think you got it from? He's hid it from you, from Kerry, for two years now." She looks at me with eyes of flint. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you from the Red, Cecelia. But I had to let you do what you did. He is Kerry's father. Your father. I love him in my own way, as I love my daughters. But I can't save him and he's running out of time. And that's why I'm here."

Realization hits me. "The Victor's purse. Could it…could we,"

"I don't know. But how can we not try?"

I face my stepmother and she senses my mood enough to rise, to stand before me.

"I'll do it," I say.

"I never doubted it, girl. You fight to save him. And I will fight here to save you."

"Deal."

"Deal, indeed."

The door opens and the Peacekeepers walk in. Della reaches out to brush my hair back.

"Remember that you are beautiful," she says before walking away.

A Peacekeeper reaches out to take her arm and receives the force of all her disapproval.

"Don't. You. Touch me," she says as she pulls out of his grip and marches out.

I sit on the couch as my head reels. Da is dying. Dying. I have to save him. I will save him.

The door opens but this time it's just the Peacekeepers coming in to escort me to the train. I rise to meet them, my face and mouth dry. We walk down the halls of the Justice Building without exchanging words until we come to the great iron doors that lead out towards the road to the train station, and no doubt to a flock of Capitol reporters all wanting a word with District 8's latest tributes.

"Wait! Wait!"

The doors are opening but there's someone dashing down the hall, waving one hand while holding her wig on with another. The Peacekeepers close in around me, but then part when they see that she is very much Capitol.

"Who are you, exactly?" asks the man who seems to be in charge as the woman gasps with the effort of running twenty yards.

"I'm Glouda. I'm doing Miss Shutter's prep for this year's public appearances. She sent me."

Without another word she sweeps up to me and unfolds a makeup case as long as my arm. I barely have time to blink as brushes sweep my cheeks and powder flies up my nose. I sneeze and she looks at me in disapproval before taking a dark pencil and drawing around my eyes."

"Miss Shutter said you were in no circumstances to leave the building with red eyes and puffy cheeks." She closes the case and looks down at me with a sigh. "It's not too much, but at least you look marginally decent."

"I'm not decent," I say as I turn away from her. "I'm beautiful." And I step through the iron doors into the light.

**Ugh, I am so sorry it took so long for me to get this up. In my defense, I had a family emergency. May has been a rough month. I intend to update more regularly from here on out.**

**Thanks to Yohan, Maraudercat, Clove'sAllies, BR2607, Spaidel, and Clover80 for your reviews!**


	5. Chapter 5

Cora:

The red dress lies crumpled upon the floor as I run my hair through the hot water pouring out of the shower. A hot shower. Mundane daily activity or unimaginable luxury, depending on where you were born. Shameful as it is, and I don't even admit it out loud to myself, there are times when I almost feel grateful that my name was the one chosen to be in the reaping ball. Even after thirty-two years I remember what it was like to grow up in extreme poverty, where a full stomach was a luxury and a shower was a distant and rarely indulged in fantasy. Whenever I think I'm becoming too complacent, when the excesses and indulgences of the Capitol become second nature, the shower is what always brings me back and reminds me exactly who I am and where I came from.

A cool female voice asks me if I want grey-away lotion for my hair. All I have to do is respond in the affirmative and a soft drop of shampoo falls from the showerhead and is massaged into my scalp. I enjoy the sensation for a few more minutes before rinsing and stepping out of the shower. I purposely disengage the instant-dry option and instead voice command the vents to blast warm air through the room. The train's central computer responds instantly and in moments I'm warm and dry. I would like nothing more than to curl up in the soft feather bed in my quarters and I am certain I'm not the only one. It's been a long day for us all. However, we arrive in the Capitol early tomorrow morning and the Hunger Games wait for no man. Or woman, for that matter. Which means I have to step out and face my tribute. I find I'm curiously apprehensive at the thought. Even after thirty-one years, I've never had a tribute with whom I was personally acquainted with before the reaping. This should be interesting.

The closet in my quarters contain more clothes than I think I would have time to wear in my life, all tailored to my size. I brush past the dresses, suits, and evening gowns, each one more ostentatious than the last until I find a drawer in the back with soft black trousers and simple tunics. I choose a deep blue tunic that looks like it could be worn by someone in back in the District, if they were from the Clear or it was Reaping Day. I forego shoes, makeup, or even pulling back my hair. I have a long month ahead of me. I deserve to be comfortable.

I almost have to laugh when I walk into the dining car and see Cecelia and Agrippina already seated at the table, studiously avoiding each other's eyes. Agrippina is in another outrageous suit that hurts to look at but at least she's gotten rid of that ridiculous hat. Cecelia on the other hand has unnervingly chosen trousers and a sea-green tunic nearly identical to mine, and for what I'm guessing are similar reasons. With her dark eyes and hair pouring over her shoulders, we could be mistaken for sisters in a heartbeat rather than mentor and tribute. The table is still devoid of food except for an artistic arrangement of rolls and fruit in the center. Cecelia's eyes flicker to the rolls and back, but the silly girl can't even summon the courage to reach for one with Agrippina across from her.

Agrippina purses her lips when she sees me enter, no doubt scandalized by my casual attire. Cecelia's eyes also flicker in surprise, but whether that's because of the similarities in the way we're dressed or because she's only ever seen me in suits and dresses I can't be sure.

"Don't get overly attached to those," I say, motioning towards her tunic. "Your clothes will be carefully selected by your stylist for the next week, and I encourage you not to make too much of a fuss. Stylists can be a nasty bunch and more than a few tributes have ended up being unwilling subjects of a stylist's 'vision.' Besides, District Eight usually does fairly well. It's not as though we're going to be dressed up as bread or trees."

Cecelia nods. "Yes Miss Shutter," she says in a voice barely above a whisper.

"I thought I told you to call me Cora," I say in a sharper voice than I intended. Cecelia doesn't look at me as I pull a chair out at the table and sit beside her. "If you cannot obey even the simplest of my requests then there's no point in you having a mentor. It's not going to get any easier."

"Yes Cora," the girl replies, but she still won't meet my eyes. I pluck a jellied sweet roll from the centerpiece and toss it to her.

"You'll spoil your appetite! Dinner is in a few minutes!" Agrippina says, but I ignore her and am pleased to see that the girl does the same.

"Eat," I say. "We have a week to overcome a lifetime of malnutrition, so whenever there is food available I want you eating, even if you can only manage a few bites. I want you to put on at least a pound every day before the Games if your body will cooperate."

"At that rate she won't be able to squeeze into her interview dress," sniffs Agrippina.

Cecelia gives her a long, hard look and then takes a bite of the roll. Maybe she was just too hungry to stand it any longer, but I'm convinced I saw a flicker of defiance in her eyes and I'm grateful that the girl isn't totally incapable of showing emotion other than demure politeness. Although I shouldn't blame her. The Red teaches girls to hide their emotions and endure like no other place in Panem. Even Cecelia, who I always made sure had mild and forgettable clients, clearly isn't immune to the effects of a hard life. For a moment I almost feel sorry for her, and then push the feelings away. Cecelia came to the Red of her own free will and pity has never gotten a single tribute out of the arena alive.

Agrippina glances at the clock ticking on the wall. "It really is time for dinner. Where on earth has Woof gotten to? I certainly hope that boy hasn't gotten lost or damaged anything. He looks like he couldn't find his way out of his bed in the morning without a set of written instructions."

It's all I can do not to slap the vile woman as Cecelia draws her breath in with a hiss. Agrippina is either too oblivious to notice our reactions or simply ignores them. She claps her hands twice and a white-clad servant appears. Agrippina orders another glass of wine and asks for the television to be turned on. A panel opens in the wall opposite us and flickers to life. Two boys battle on a ledge above a cascading waterfall, battered and bloodied and staring at each other with half-mad eyes. The boy from District 2 makes a sweep with his scythe that his opponent barely avoids. The second boy strikes down with an ax before District 2 can turn around and the screams echo over the waterfall as his leg is nearly shorn off at the knee.

"Recognize him?" I ask, knowing it's an easy question.

Cecelia barely needs to glance at the screen before answering. "Connor Murphy, of District Seven. Last year's Victor."

"And how did he win?"

"He won that fight. The boy from District Two led the Career pack and they turned on each other when he died."

"Yes, but it's more than that. Why Connor and not some other tribute from the outer districts?"

The pause is longer, but not by much. "He harassed the Careers from the first day. They didn't know it was him spoiling their food and starting wildfires near their camp. It added to their stress. The Capitol loved how exciting he was and kept him provided with supplies. He also never revealed how good he was with axes in his training, so the Careers underestimated him."

"He played the maverick," I say, pleased that the girl has a mind under that pretty face. "The capable underdog. It's an angle that District Seven does very well. Keep that in mind when you meet them."

It's at this moment that Woof and his tribute, who's name I can't even remember, choose to enter. I'm gratified that the boy has stopped his clapping, but he still has a wide smile on his face. Woof sees what's playing on the television and places both hands on the boys shoulders, guiding him so he faces away from the screen. "Sit here, Loomer. No, next to me. Good lad. Are you hungry?"

Loomer nods. "Oranges?" he asks, his eyes wide and pleading.

"So impatient," says Agrippina with a sniff. The rest of us ignore her. Woof mutes the television before sitting as far away from our district escort as he can manage.

This is always my favorite part of the Hunger Games experience. Watching the tributes taste real food for the first time. And this year does not disappoint. Cecelia's eyes widen as mushroom and lemon soup is laid out for the first course. She's probably completely unaware that soup comes in colors other than brown. I want to tell her that this is nothing compared to what's coming but I let the food speak for itself. Bread studded with raisins and nuts, a creamy fruit salad, roast ham bathed in cinnamon sauce, a hundred different cheeses, cranberry and pomegranate juices, roast duck tips in honey-wine. I satisfy myself with just two glasses of plum wine, but Woof is on his fifth before the third course. I give him a glare and his neck flushes from what I'm not entirely sure is the alcohol. Afterwards he sticks with water. Cecelia is given a glass of wine but I take it and replace it with cranberry juice. I need her mind clear.

Desert is an ice-cream and chocolate pie, and at this point Loomer simply abandons the silverware and starts eating with his hands. Woof gives a resigned sigh, and I try to hide my smile behind a napkin because I remember doing the same thing in this very train when I first tasted chocolate cake.

Across from me, Agrippina gives a sniff. "District savages."

Woof gives her a glare filled with more venom than filled the arena at the Second Quarter Quell. I can tell that my mild-mannered mentor has finally lost patience and, much as I would love to see the fireworks fly, I have a tribute to take care of and she doesn't need to see discord between the members of her support team.

"Well, I think it's almost time for some strategy sessions. Woof, why don't you take the rest of the pie and go into the game car with Loomer? I think separate training will be appropriate this year."

It's a mark of how intelligent Woof is that he knows exactly what I'm doing even after five glasses of plum wine. He gets up and takes Loomer by the hand, leading him out of the car and saying something that makes the young lad chuckle. I wait until the door closes behind them before turning to Cecelia.

"Did you know him? Before today, I mean."

Cecelia appears startled by the question. "No. I mean, no more than anyone else did. Loomer's pretty well known in the district because he's friendly and cheerful to everyone and the adults all tend to watch out for him. The Peacekeepers have never exactly had any pity for, well, simple people."

"Well from now on, I don't want you talking to him, or addressing him, or acknowledging his presence in any way. "

Cecelia looks startled at my order. "But, we'll be training together. Not to mention the parade and the interviews. How am I going to just ignore him? Like I said, he's friendly to everyone. And don't district partners traditionally not go after each other until there's no other choice?"

I sigh. "I didn't mean that you have to cut him down at the Cornucopia, just that I don't' want you associating with him. Listen girl, it's bad enough that friendships sometimes develop in the arena. It's human nature to cling to each other in times of trouble. But Loomer is far more sympathetic than most, it's really the only thing he has going for him. You can't feel anything but dispassion towards any of your competitors, and I'm not going to permit you to start with him."

"You sound as though you've given up on him," says Cecelia.

"Well, he's not exactly Victor material, now is he?" asks Agrippina as she examines her nails.

"Agrippina, you have a pimple on your chin. It must be all that district smog, it does hell to your complexion, don't you think?"

I allow myself a smirk as Agrippina hustles away faster than a Career at the Cornucopia.

"But if he's so hopeless, why is Woof bothering with separate training?" Cecelia asks, frowning.

"Because he's still a mentor and we have responsibilities as such."

Cecelia nods, but she still doesn't look convinced. I wonder if she suspects the truth, that Woof and Loomer are at this moment playing some of the colorful, holographic games that rich Capitol children beg their parents for on their birthdays. We agreed outside the Justice Building during the hour for goodbyes that we would equip Cecelia as best we could and give the Loomer the best week of his life before the Capitol throws him into the Games. One of the Peacekeepers who frequents the Red whispered to me as I boarded that the odds of Loomer dying at the bloodbath are already ninety-five to one. But Cecelia doesn't need to know this.

"So, have you devised a strategy? How do you think you'll face the arena?"

Cecelia gives that little frown again. "I thought figuring that was your job."

"My _job_, girl, is to make the best with what I have. But I need to know the materials I'm working with. I'm not a stylist, I can't make a decent tribute out of anything. At any rate, you're very lovely, so that's something we can start with."

"Yes, that's what my stepmother said."

"Spindella?" I look at her sharply, but see no sign that she's aware of who her stepmother truly is or the details of our relationship. "Well, she wasn't wrong. I'll make sure your stylist works the 'natural beauty' angle and try to get some sponsors away from District 1. Not everyone is a fan of blondes, after all."

"Spindella says I should try to seduce other tributes, if I can."

"Well, at the very least you can distract them. The seduction tactic isn't anything new, but it doesn't always work. I tried it on the District 1 boy during the Quell, but let's just say that I didn't realize he didn't swing my way until it was almost too late."

I have to laugh at the few seconds it takes for Cecelia to understand what I'm saying. "What happened?" she asks.

"If you make it out of the arena, I'll tell you. We're talking about you now. What other skills do you have?"

"Nothing."

"I'll be the judge of that. Think, girl."

"I have nothing!" the girl says in a harsh voice. "Nothing! I can't fight, I can't build fires, I can't use a weapon or find plants, all I can do is look pretty, lie on a bed, and fuck."

She shoots me an angry glance as she finishes and I sigh. I was foolish to hope this wouldn't come up, but that doesn't mean I want to have the conversation now. "We'll probably have to have some heart-to-heart girl talk sometime, but not now. We'll think of a strategy for you once I get to know you better. Until then, let's go to the television car. It's almost time for the reaping recaps."

We rise, and I'm pleased to see Cecelia stick a couple of sweet buns into a napkin to eat later. She may be angry with me and her situation, but at least she has the sense to listen and take good advice. We make our way from the dining car through the adjoining one where Woof's quarters are before passing a couple of Peacekeepers. They're on every tribute train, but they usually stay in their own quarters where they have plenty of food and entertainment to hold them over. I ignore them and tell Cecelia with my eyes to do the same.

They've almost passed us when the last one in the group, a young man, reaches out and grabs my tribute's wrist. "Cecelia! I didn't think I'd see you until we got to the Capitol!"

Cecelia's eyes widen in disbelief. "Tanni?" she gasps.

I recognize him now. He's one of Cecelia's regulars. Damn. This is something I never anticipated.

"Are you alright? Are you ready for the Games? You're going to be great, I'll sponsor you of course, and I'll make sure these idiots do too." The rest of the Peacekeepers give a few whistles and leer at Cecelia as she flushes.

"Tanni…I…please let go of me."

"Cecelia, it's just me. You don't have to be afraid with me."

The boy pulls her closer and snags a hand around her waist as I lose patience.

"Let go of her. Now." My voice cracks through the hall like ice. The idiot boy drops his hands and looks at me bewildered. "She's not your whore anymore. She's a tribute, and no one touches her until the Games. And then they'll have to kill her first. Come, Cecelia."

I turn my back and hear Cecelia follow. The door closes behind us, cutting off the taunts of Tanni's fellow Peacekeepers. The girl doesn't say a word until she's seated on the white couch in front of the enormous television screen. I take a seat on one of the arm chairs and wait for Woof and Agrippina to enter. The former is holding another glass of wine and is flushed more than ever, while the latter has completely redone her makeup, no doubt in an effort to hide the non-existent pimple. I score another mental point for myself before switching on the television screen.

Antonius and Antonia, the extremely irritating Hunger Games commentators, are already blathering away as the camera swoops over the square in District 1. It's an attractive place, with the gardens surrounding it and a fountain in the background. Nothing to the Capitol of course, but infinitely better than the outer districts. The mood is festive and casual as people mill around, none of them concerned about the fates of their children. I feel the familiar surge of anger shared by so many in the districts, particularly among the Victors, when we see the Capitol's lapdogs. I meet Woof's eyes for a moment.

"Twenty sesterces says it's two blonds," he says.

Five minutes later, he's handing over the coins with a grimace after the usual rush to the stage. The girl is, as expected, golden-haired and lush, but the boy, while still handsome and well-built, has dark hair and features that suggest he had an ancestor from one of the more remote districts long before the Dark Days. They wave casually to the crowd as the camera switches angles to show two pairs of beaming parents who are oddly enough standing next to each other already. Something's off about it but I can't put my finger on what before District 2 in on camera.

The boy is an unusual specimen for District 2, average-height and weedy instead of large and muscled like the male tributes usually are. But he receives just as many cheers as his past competitors. He's confident in his victory, you can tell it by his face, so he's definitely had training and he's definitely one to watch. The girl from 2 is about what you would expect from the quarry district, average height, dark features, and a smirk that promises only pain.

I lean over towards Cecelia. "The girls from Two are traditionally trained in knives. Make sure you watch her in training to so we can guess how good she is."

Cecelia shakes her head. "She's not a knife thrower. Her chosen weapon is swords."

Silence follows this as Agrippina, Woof, and I all look at the demure little tribute with various expressions of shock.

"How could you possibly know that, girl?" asks Woof as he takes a sip of wine.

"Knife throwers all walk the same. The have a solid stance because you have the most power throwing knives when you stand still. She's walking on the balls of her feet, like she's used to moving around or dodging very quickly. Her shoulders and back are also more developed, knife throwers have stronger biceps than shoulders."

Two seconds of ringing silence follow this analysis, during which Cecelia blushes almost as red as Woof. "I…I notice things. And…I remember them."

"That will be useful. Good." I give a little nod that doesn't betray how impressed I really am. At least I'm not looking at her with wide-mouthed disbelief like Agrippina, although for once I'm sympathizing with our escort.

District 3 is almost finished by this time. The boy has the usual terrified look and shaking knees, but the girl is oddly confident. I wonder if she just believes she'll be a repeat of the Fifty-Third Hunger Games when Wiress won in a shocking upset, or if she actually has a plan. Another one for Cecelia to keep her eye on in training.

District 4 comes next, the last of the Career districts. The boy who's reaped is fourteen, and he glances about nervously until the call comes for volunteers. Four boys end up volunteering, and the winner is chosen based on seniority. A large eighteen year old with tanned skin and black hair replaces the relieved boy before crossing his arms and doing his best to look intimidating.

There are no volunteers for the girls. A sixteen year old end ups standing on the stage, defiantly staring down at the crowd, avoiding the eyes of her district partner.

"Thoughts?" I ask Cecelia.

"They're both trained," she says. "That's all I can tell about the man. The girl prefers spears, and she's left handed. She's been trained but she didn't expect to be reaped."

I nod before returning my attention to the screen. Districts 5 and 6 pass without incident, four typically terrified children being called up to the reaping stage. I sit up a bit straighter when we reach District 7, the district which I am most familiar with besides my own, and the one that has been doing so well in the Games as of late with two Victors in five years. I'm not disappointed. I let my breath out in a hiss as the girl is called up. With her masses of copper-red hair, gleaming green eyes and developed curves, she's nearly as beautiful as Cecelia. I was hoping my tribute would only be competing against District 1 for the role of Hunger Games beauty.

The boy is a volunteer. There's a bit more applause for him, as the chosen tribute was rather young and this eighteen year old is well muscled and confident. Arrogant as well. I don't need to turn to Cecelia, there's every chance he can use axes and every indication that he believes he's the next Connor Murphy.

8 is next. Antonia and Antonius gush over Cecelia, as they do every tribute, but they don't have much to say about Loomer, other than how nice it is to see someone so excited to come to the Capitol. Woof and I avoid each other's eyes.

9, 10, and 11 pass without much note, the only one displaying any bit of defiance being the girl from 11. The escort in the coal district decides to spice things up by calling the boy first. The fifteen year old is typically a skeleton covered with skin, but the girl appears well fed and doesn't look like she's about to keel over from starvation.

"She's from the nicer part of town," I say, almost to myself. "She probably didn't think she had a chance without taking out tesserae."

Cecelia shakes her head. "She's not rich, she's a thief. That's why she's so well fed."

"Oh for the love of…how could you possibly know that?" I ask, looking at the girl in disbelief.

"Her reaping dress isn't entirely clean of coal dust, which means she walked to the square from near the mines where it accumulated on the journey. She's well-fed but one of the poor."

"Perhaps she sells her body for food," says Woof, glancing at me.

"No. She doesn't have the look in her eyes."

At least there we can agree.

I stand and stretch."Alright Cecelia, to bed. Don't think about your competitors too hard tonight. You need to rest and there's nothing you can do before you see them at the parade tomorrow. Have a good night."

Cecelia nods and leaves. Agrippina follows her, no doubt to catch one of her atrocious soap-operas or to check out one of the casino channels so she can place some bets, despite the fact that she's not allowed to. Woof has one more glass of wine before retreating, no doubt to check on Loomer and put him to bed as well, leaving me alone in the television room.

I have another glass of plum wine as well as I watch the continued commentary on the reapings. I predict that the girl from 2, the boy from 4, and the boy from 7 will be this year's biggest contenders. I try to come up with some strategy points to relay to Cecelia in the morning, but I'm tired, the wine is finally going to my head, and the tributes are beginning to run together in my mind with the previous years I've mentored. I give up and head to my quarters.

I hear voices as I walk down the train. They're coming from where I know Cecelia's quarters are. Curious, I make my way to her door, where low voices are whispering and a tall figure is blocking the light from Cecelia's open door.

"C'mon Cecelia. You can't tell me you're not lonely. I just want to make sure you're all right." Tanni is leaning against the frame, preventing Cecelia from closing the door.

"I'm fine, I told you," she hisses. "Now leave me alone. I want to be alone. Please."

"You told me you loved seeing me. You said I was always welcome to drop by."

I decide to spare Cecelia from having to answer the ridiculous boy further. "Why aren't you in bed, Cecelia? I thought I told you to get some rest."

"Miss Shutter," says Cecelia with a sigh of relief. "I…yes…I was just going, I just-"

"I know what you just. Have a good night. And it's Cora. Don't you have somewhere else to be, Britannicus?"

The Peacekeeper frowns at me but steps away from the door, which Cecelia can't close fast enough. He looks startled when it slams, then walks away down the hall with a disappointed look.

He doesn't get far. I grab him and press him against the wall in a hold I learned on the second day of training thirty-one years ago and have never forgotten. Despite his youth and weight, he can't struggle without pain, as he quickly discovers.

"You are going to stay away from that girl. I will not allow her to be distracted and she certainly doesn't need to be reminded of what you did to her over and over again."

He turns his head so his mouth isn't pressed against the paneled oak. "I love her," he says in a husky voice.

I can't help the laughter. "You love her? You bought that love. From me, time and time again. You think that girl was actually pleased to see you in the Red? She was pleased to see one thing. The sesterces that helped keep her family alive. So if you give her any more trouble, if you even look at her in a way I don't like, they'll find your body under a bed of flowers in President Lucius Memorial Park."

"You…you can't…I'm a Peacekeeper, bitch. You can't threaten-"

"There are a hundred thousand Peacekeepers, and you're not even from the Capitol, are you? But there are only two Quarter Quell Victors. Whose life do you think the Capitol places a higher value on? Are you willing to bet on it either way?"

He doesn't respond and I know I've won. I release him.

"Have a good night, Britannicus," I say as I watch him slink off down the hall.

It's a mentor's job to protect her tributes, but sometimes I think I put in more than what's in the job description. I have a feeling at least some of the other Victors would approve.

**Well, there's Cecelia's competition. Who do you think is going to give her the most trouble?**

**Thanks as usual to my reviewers: BR2607, Clove'sAllies, Clover80, and Oxenstierna D. Yuki-Rin. Your continued support keeps me writing. If you're reading and not reviewing, please consider dropping a line to let me know what you think so far. A lot of times my reviewers' reactions influence the direction of my writing. Happy Summer!**


	6. Chapter 6

Cecelia:

"Twenty minutes till arrival at the Capitol. Twenty minutes till arrival at the Capitol."

The cool female voice rings through my small bedroom in the train. I groan and squint open one eye. My body is cocooned in the soft comforter and feather pillows piled on my bed. I have never slept so well in my life. I thought that I would have to fall into the river and block all thoughts of the upcoming Games in order to get something even resembling rest, but as soon as I lay my head down and wrapped myself in the silk sheets I found myself drifting away into a deep slumber. A sharp stab of guilt pierces me and I sit upright. Kerry and Carl and Spindella surely aren't sleeping well. Here I am dozing in comfort as Kerry no doubt cried herself to sleep on her straw mat. I wonder if she crawled in with Spindella and Da, if Della tried to whisper any words of comfort to her daughter and Da.

Da.

Oh Da. I'm so scared.

The door flies open with a bang and a whirlwind of fabrics and perfume blow into the room. I give a squeak of shock and pull the comforter up to cover myself, even though I'm still rather decent in a satin nightgown. The curtains on the window fly apart and I squint my eyes shut in brief pain. When I'm able to open them again I see Cora standing over me with a frown. She's already dressed in a deep-blue suit and skirt, her hair pulled tightly back and her eyes accented with some sort of dark makeup. Behind her is a young girl hardly older than myself. She can only be Capitolian from her excessive amounts of makeup and the sapphires embedded in her cheeks, but she keeps shooting nervous glances at Cora as she struggles to keep a hold of what must be two dozen different dresses and several cases of makeup.

"Didn't you here the announcement, girl? We're about to arrive, and we can't have you going out in public looking like that."

"Miss Shutter?" I throw back the comforter and try to rise, but I've gotten tangled in the sheets. "What are you doing in here?"

"Would you rather have Agrippina here? She's still asleep, of course, never mind that her job is to make sure you're prepared to meet the heartless public, but no doubt she'd put you in something inappropriately ostentatious. We're about to arrive in the Capitol, my dear, so wake up and get ready. If you're very good, I'll make sure you get some coffee before you leave the train."

Cora helps me pull the sheets off myself as she talks and I rise and reach for my trousers and tunic from last night. My mentor immediately slaps my hand away.

"Not those girl! Every tribute from Three to Twelve is going to step off their trains looking like they got in an argument with a mutt. Fear and anxiety does hell on a person's presentation, so we're going to get a leg up on them. The time to make a good impression starts now."

I'm still trying to rub the sleep from my eyes and am only catching about one in every three words that Cora is saying. "But…I thought that my stylist would decide what I'd be wearing in public."

"She will, but there are always a few people lingering at the train station. I want you looking your best in case there are any nosy photojournalists lingering around_. Are you going to just stand there, woman or are you going to make yourself useful?_"

This last is directed at the Capitolian girl and she jumps before dumping the makeup cases and dresses on my bed. Cora rolls her eyes and pushes me in front of a mirror. She pulls a silver hairbrush that must be worth more than my family's entire tenement building from a drawer in the bedside table and begins attacking my hair as the girl holds dress after dress up to my shoulders. Cora begins a slow chant of disapproval, "No, no, no, absolutely no," until she settles on three different options. Before making a final choice, my mentor takes my shoulders and pushes me around so I face the window.

I draw my breath in a hiss as I watch the buildings flash by outside. Massive stone pillars, towers of glass and silver, golden domes and windows of every shade imaginable rush past in a blur as we pull into the Capitol. Cora sets the brush down and pushes a button set in the paneled wood that I hadn't noticed.

"If I don't have three coffees here before the train stops, I will dress one of you like a district tramp and throw you in the Hunger Games!" she screeches.

"Miss Shutter isn't the most gracious person before the sun rises," the Capitol girl says to me with a small smile. Cora gives her a withering glare and she ducks her head and holds up the three dresses.

"Burgundy," Cora says as the door flies open and a harried-looking servant rushes in holding a silver tray with three steaming mugs. Cora takes one for herself and leaves the other two on the table near my bed before walking to the door.

"I'll meet you in the entrance car. Make sure you drink that coffee, you're going to need the energy. _Minimal _color, girl, or I'll make sure you don't come near a makeup case again for at least a decade."

The girl breathes a sigh of relief as the door closes before taking my chin in her impossibly smooth hands and holding my head still. She applies makeup to my lips, cheeks, and below my eyes before letting me go and handing me the dress. She ducks into the closet so I can take off my nightgown and pull on a white shift and the dress. It's a deep red, the color of the wine Woof was wearing last night, and is rather tighter than I would prefer, reaching only down to my mid-thighs. I take a sip of coffee, screwing my face up at the bitter taste but enjoying the rush that surges through me a minute later. Whatever is in coffee, it's strong, and I already feel three times more awake.

The Capitolian girl pokes her head out of the door and steps out when she sees I'm decent.

"Miss Shutter said you've never worn heels, but these shouldn't be too bad. They go with the dress." She helps me put on the silver sandals and does the buckles for me because I can't lean down in the burgundy dress. Once I'm on my feet and take a few tentative steps, she leads me to the mirror. I don't look like I could be from the Capitol, and for that I'm grateful. But the girl in the expensive dress and silver shoes, with the dark makeup and matching lipstick, she's not me. I'm looking at a stranger.

The girl lays her head on my shoulder like I imagine an older sister or best friend would. "You look amazing, and Tigris is only going to make you look more incredible. I promise I'll get my daddy to sponsor you in the Games! Good luck if I don't see you before then!"

She gives a little squeak of excitement and kisses me on the cheek before holding the door open for me. I stand for a moment, letting the emotions rush out of me like water in a sieve. On the one hand, hearing this silly Capitolian talk about her father is like a knife as I think about my own Da, going to another shift on the factory floor when he desperately needs to stay home and rest. But mixed in is a surge of excitement. I've made one sponsor, if the girl keeps her promise, and that's one more than I had when I woke up this morning.

Cora, Woof and Loomer are waiting for me in the entrance car, all three of them dressed in fine clothes. Loomer gives me a grin and holds his hand up in greeting, expecting me to hit it, but Cora shoots me a sharp glance and I avert my eyes and face the door. I hear Woof say something to his tribute and the now familiar laughing of the happy, simple boy.

I feel Cora's eyes on me. "Adequate," she says as Agrippina comes rushing in, looking distinctly disheveled.

"Why did no one wake me! No one told me we were about to arrive! I didn't even get to put my face on!"

"It wouldn't have helped much regardless," says Cora. Agrippina doesn't have time to respond as the door flies open and I'm blinded by a sudden rush of light.

Cora said there would be a few people waiting at the station and maybe a photographer, and I know instantly that she was lying so I wouldn't be nervous. A hundred cameras are pointed at us, flashing as bright as the morning sun. People are yelling and cheering and reaching towards me as I'm hit by a wall of color and perfume and sound. There are hundreds of people waiting on the platform, bursts of color against the massive white walls and arching ceiling of the station. And they're all looking, shouting, screaming at me.

"Smile, girl. Whatever happens, keep on that smile. It's easier than the Red. They can't touch you yet."

I look at Cora and she gives me a small smile, what I think is the first genuine smile she's given me since I walked into her office a year ago. It passes by swift as a summer snow and is replaced by a huge toothy grin that doesn't reach her eyes. I smile too, making sure it's even wider and toothier, and she nods before pushing me forward to lead the way onto the platform.

I'm certain that we'll be enveloped in the crowd and lose each other in an instant, but a squad of Peacekeepers in smart dress whites surrounds us almost immediately. I can feel Tanni's eyes on me and I ignore him, desperately hoping that he doesn't try to speak to me again. I focus on the outrageously dressed men and women around me, smiling, nodding, giving a little wave here and there. Cora occasionally puts a hand on my shoulder and stops me so a photographer can get a good shot.

"Stand next to her, Cora! Gorgeous, gorgeous, love it! Fabulous! Amazing! Turn towards me, hand on hip! Wonderful, girls! Amazing!"

I now regret leaving my mug of coffee on the bedside table, even though I know Cora wouldn't have let me off the train with it. The constant smiling and turning is already wearing me out, and it's a relief when we finally make it out of the station to the golden street where two long, white cars are waiting for us. Woof, Loomer, and half the Peacekeepers move towards one, Tanni included. He gives a look of regret back in my direction before he gets in. Cora follows me towards our own car until she grasps my hand and pulls me sharply away. She whispers to a white uniformed servant before leading me towards a cluster of people standing just outside the station door, many of the waving and yelling in our direction.

Most of the clique are boys and girls my age or a little older, but that's where the comparison ends. Some are literally dripping in jewels, most have tattoos, they're all in the finest of silks and furs and satins. As a girl from District 8, I have a good idea of which types of cloth costs the most, and what these people are wearing tells me that they're sons and daughters of the wealthiest people in the Capitol. They're the ones who follow the Games the most avidly and make the big bets. They're the ones I need to impress.

"Brought us another, Cora? What a surprise!" says one of the boys as the rest of the group gives a laugh. Cora laughs along too.

"This one is special, Germanicus. Make sure to tell your mother to keep an eye on her. It's been four years since we had a female Victor, and I know for a fact that Urgulana didn't sponsor Wiress. You're all very fortunate to be able to meet this year's Victor early."

"What's so special about her?" asks a huge boy who's made even larger by the fur coat he's wearing. "Besides nice tits?"

Several others snicker, but I'm pleased that I don't blush. I've heard much worse.

"Well, Cecelia is-"

"Let District Eight speak for herself," says a young woman who seems to be wearing nothing but thousands of pearls. Cora's smile drops for only a moment as the woman looks at me with disdain. "Well, District Eight? Why should I throw sesterces at you when you look like you won't get twenty yards off the podium?

"I…no, I'm…I'll" I stammer out and look at Cora in desperation. She nods at me, and I know I'm not going to get any help. I close my eyes, think of Da and Kerry, and fall into the river.

The smile comes naturally and I give them a sidelong glance that I hope is mysterious. I meet as many eyes as I can. "Everyone this year has a secret. The boy and girl from One, the boy from Two, even the girl from Twelve. Even me. But if you want to know my secret, you'll have to sponsor me. And I'll make sure I find out a few secrets of my own, just for you all. Solemn District Eight promise!"

"And that's all you're going to get from our Cecelia," says Cora as excited whispering breaks out and the pearl girl gives me an appraising look. "See you all at the parade tonight! Much love darlings!"

We reach the car without any further interruptions. I sit down in the plush leather, closing my eyes for a moment as Cora scoots in next to me.

"Sorry about that. I have to keep those children happy, most of their parents were sponsors of my own. I just didn't expect Larissa to be there. Little twit. About time!"

The servant who held open the door reappears with two mugs of coffee. Cora passes one to me with a nod as the door shuts. I don't hesitate this time but spend the whole trip grateful for the bitter drink and for a mentor who knows exactly what a tribute girl needs.

The trip to the Remake Center is made mostly in silence. Another crowd is waiting outside the enormous glass tower, but Cora hurries me along, assuring me that no one here is worth our time. I don't know how she can tell, they look just as outrageous as the crowd by the station, but then I haven't been visiting the Capitol regularly for more than thirty years.

The interior of the Remake Center is white and silver, making the colors of the Capitolians rushing about seem even more out of place. Cora and I are directed to a lift that takes us up to the eighth floor. I step out, expecting Cora to follow, but she pushes another button and the doors begin to close. She steps in front of them and they pause on some sort of sensor as she looks at me.

"No matter what your prep team tells you to do, just do it without question. Same goes for your stylist. Tigris is a little…eccentric, but she's very good. You'll be fine."

"Where are you going?" I ask, hating myself for sounding so young and scared.

"I have people to meet, things to do, sponsors to schmooze up to, and I need to send a car to the train platform. I think we left Agrippina behind." She looks supremely unconcerned by this. "I'll be back shortly. Make sure they feed you." And then the doors are shut and she's gone.

I walk slowly around the room. It's sparse but very elegant. One side is covered in floor to ceiling windows that give an incredible view of the valley the Capitol is nestled in and the mountains beyond. There is an enormous stone bathtub set in one corner, so deep that steps are needed to climb into it. In front of the windows are three white leather chairs. An enormous gilded mirror is set next to what looks like some sort of stretcher like the ones used in the tiny infirmary in the Clear. On the other side of the stretcher is a table containing what looks to be every type of makeup and beauty tool ever created.

I spin around as I hear footsteps behind me and see three women enter. They line up and face me, all of them with solemn looks on their faces. They're dressed less ornately than the other Capitolians I've seen, but there can be no doubt of their origins. All three women are in matching robes of varying shades of blue. Their hair is dyed to match as is the skin around each of their eyes, similar to Agrippina's. All of them have faces of sculpted perfection, from I assume are hours upon hours beneath a surgeon's knife.

The women in robes of deepest midnight steps forward and gives a bow. "You must be Cecelia. We are your prep team. It is our honor to shape you into the vision you will become for the Fifty Seventh Annual Hunger Games, just as it is your honor to represent your district. I am Aegaea and this is Vespasiana and Plautilla." The two other women give bows. "Now, if you will just disrobe, we will begin the preparation ceremony."

The women wait with hands clasped as I pull off the burgundy dress and shift. Cora warned me that the Capitolians have little regard for modesty and partial nudity is often seen as a fashion statement, so I'm not as scandalized at standing in front of three strangers completely naked. I'm more unnerved by the way they circle me like scavenging birds, making comments about my long legs and the curve of my neck. It almost seems like a spiritual experience for them, like the expressions I sometimes see on those few individuals of Fog Town who still whisper wishes and prayers to strange gods. At least I should be grateful that I got a prep team who seems to take their jobs so seriously.

Aegaea moves in closer, scrutinizing my face. "Who did your makeup?" she asks, anger clouding her voice and making her accent more pronounced. "Some lower city cow, no doubt," she answers herself before I can stammer out a reply. "We asked for you to come unspoiled. Vespasiana, run the bath. We need to remove this slop before we can begin."

The marble bath fills much faster than I would have thought and I sink down into a warm heaven of bubbles and oils. I get to enjoy it for about twenty seconds before my prep team surrounds the tub and attacks me, rubbing me down with rough brushes and washing my hair with five different bath oils. After the bath I am "waxed and exfoliated," which translates to being stripped of all hair from my body and having my skin rubbed raw with smoothed stones.

"You're actually not so bad looking, once we remove all the dirt and hair. You could almost be a respectable Capitolian!" says Plautilla, the youngest, looking immensely pleased with her compliment as she paints my nails silver.

Aegaea sniffs as she snips at my hair, as if offended that a district girl could ever be compared to a native of the Capitol. I try to give a smile but have no words to say. My prep team aren't very talkative, although I get the feeling that Vespasiana and Plautilla would be chattering away if Aegaea didn't take herself so seriously.

"We'll leave the finishing touches to your makeup for your stylist." says Aegaea as the three gather up their robes and glide out of the room. I'm left alone and naked, shivering a bit and wishing that I had remembered to ask if my prep team could send up anything to eat. I take a look at my prep team's work in the mirror. My hair is curled, my skin gleams like the finest porcelain. My lipstick and eyeliner are silver, as are my nails. This morning, I didn't look like Cecelia any more. Now I don't even look human. I close my eyes and remember why I need to get through this. This is for Da. And so I _will_ get through this.

The door opens and the man I assume to be my stylist walks in. He's dressed in purple trousers and a matching lacy shirt. He's young, he doesn't have the look of repeated surgical alterations, but his face is still too flawless for him to have been a naturally handsome man. His black hair is pulled back in a horse's tail, his nose is long and sharp, and his thin lips curl when he sees me.

"So this is my canvas. Could have been worse, could have been better. How an _artiste_ is meant to suffer!"

He wrings his hands dramatically, fixing me with cold eyes as silver as my makeup. He gives a small smile. "On closer inspection, yes, you could have been worse. Much worse. You're quite a lovely creature actually."

His hands touch my shoulders and I have to force myself not to flinch away. "You…you're my stylist? Sir?"

The hands clasp my shoulders and the nails dig into my skin as I bite back a hiss of pain.

"I, simple child, am no mere _stylist_. 'Stylist' is a word used by peasants and fools, men and women who do not understand the struggle and suffering of a man whose genius is locked into this mundane body of clay. I am Hector, celebrated artiste and poet. My mind soars like the eagle, my hands paint like sunlight upon the water. Each of my creations is more precious than all the jewels of District One. I am precious. Aye, so precious."

Hector moves away and stares out the window towards the city as he speaks, seemingly lost in his own musings. I'm too nervous to say anything. This man frightens me. Back home in the Red, all men could do was touch me and use me and pay me. But this man. He is clearly one of the great. A man of power, of influence. What, what is this man going to do to me?

After a long moment of silence, Hector turns back and looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. "For the past fifty years, the tributes of Eight have been dressed in some sort of cloth from your district. Velvet and lace, satin and silk, linen and cashmere. No more! I am Hector, and I am no mere stylist. I will not acquiesce to the demands and expectations of the common rabble! No, I will array you in cloth-of-steel! You are a tribute, going into bloody battle, and should be presented as such!"

His eyes are fervid with a sort of mad joy as he claps his hands. My prep team re-enters, carrying what I can only assume is my costume for the Opening Ceremonies tonight. My heart sinks when I see that all three of them are struggling under its weight. How on earth am I going to be able to stand for more than an hour in a moving chariot wearing something so heavy?

"Close your eyes, girl," orders Hector and I obey. Something soft is lowered over my head, laying lightly on my shoulders. I can't help but open my eyes briefly and see a plain black dress that falls to my feet.

"No peeking!" screeches my stylist/artiste and I close my eyes again. The next thing lowered over my shoulders is so heavy that my knees nearly buckle before I can lock them.

"And….open!"

I'm facing the mirror. My dress covers my entire body, accenting every curve. It's made of tens of thousands of gleaming steel links. Larger plates of steel twist in intricate designs over my breasts. The sleeves go all the way down to my hands and are fixed to my fingers with iron rings. The collar is high and ungiving, and I find I can't take a full breath without my throat pressing painfully against the highest steel links. Vespasiana places a long length of sheerest ivory linen on my head, and Aegaea fixes it place with pins before setting a crown of crystal on my head. Plautilla finishes the costume by slipping soft grey slippers onto my feet.

"Well my canvas, what do you think?"

"It's…striking…" I manage to say. What I really want to ask is how I'm supposed to move in this monstrosity, but Hector's eyes clearly will stand no slight to his creation. There are actually tears flowing down his face as he stands behind me and puts his hands on my waist.

"I…I am…a genius! A master of art! Oh, what a burden it is to be me." He wipes away the tears as the prep team rewards him with enthusiastic applause. "Come, ladies. Let us leave our canvas alone to fully appreciate how she reflects my brilliance! I promised an interview with Antonia and I simply cannot be late. Don't move from this room, my canvas. And don't sit down. Don't eat or drink either. I'll return before it's time for the parade to lead you down."

It's only about ten minutes after he's left before I find myself getting lightheaded. The dress is severely restricting my oxygen flow and I'm starting to gasp for breath. I try to release the clasp that locks the collar in place, but it won't give. In my anxiety, I don't notice the door open until I hear the footsteps behind me.

There's a man standing in front of me, and the first thing I notice is that he's not Capitolian. His pants and shirt are made from the finest material, as is the silver chain around his neck, but his face bears none of the markings of a surgeon's knife. It wouldn't need it anyway. He looks to be in his mid-twenties and is as handsome as any tribute from District 1. His hair is golden and his face boyish, his eyes a clear blue that take my breath away as much as the dress I'm wearing. He's strong as well, built and muscled from years of labor or training. His eyes dart around the room before settling on me. I swallow and try to wipe my hands on the metal dress, to no avail. This is ridiculous. I've seen dozens of men, most of them naked, and now I feel as silly as Crinoline.

"You must be Cecelia," says the man in a deep voice as he walks up to stand next to me. I nod, but can't get any words out.

"Is Cora here?" I shake my head. The man nods and sits in one of the white leather chairs. "How are you?

I bite my lip. "I'm fine, sir. Thank you for your concern."

"I'm not very good at detecting lies, but some are just too obvious. I know you must be scared, but you're going to get through this, one way or another."

"What would you know about it?" I spit out, harsher than I meant to.

"More than most. Not as much as some," he says, and his eyes are suddenly withdrawn. "I'm not here to hurt you, Cecelia. I'm on your side. More so than your stylist, or your escort. That you can depend on." He reaches out from where he's sitting and gives my hand a comforting squeeze.

"What are you even doing here?" I ask as I pull away. I don't like this man's eyes, or his touch, any more than I liked Tanni's looks or Hector's hands. The man's eyes are kind but that means nothing. Men can be charming, they can even be caring, but in my experience it's always a means to an end.

"I'm actually looking for your mentor. She's a friend. You wouldn't happen to know where she is, would you?"

I shake my head. "She's out. I don't when she'll be back. And now I know you're lying. Miss Shutter doesn't have friends. Why would she be friends with someone from District Seven regardless?"

The man's eyebrows lift in surprise. "How did you know I was from District Seven?"

"You're not Capitolian. That much is obvious, no matter how expensive your clothes are." Despite my suspicion and discomfort with being alone with this man, I still enjoy using my mind like this. "Outside the Capitol, blond hair is only common in Districts One, Seven, and Twelve. You're not from One. Your muscles and the callus on your hands were built from labor, like cutting trees or mining, not weapons training. You could be from Twelve, but you don't have that starved and pinched look that most of them who work in the mines have. That leaves Seven."

The man smiles, an expression that makes him look even younger. "How do you know I'm not a Victor from Twelve?"

"You can walk in a straight line, so there's no way in hell you're Haymitch Abernathy."

This earns a shout of laughter. "Well ship me off to District Thirteen and call me very impressed. Cora had better take advantage of that mind. You're sure you have no idea when she'll-"

But at that moment, the doors open again and Cora strides in. She takes one look at us, sitting and standing by the chairs, and she breaks into a smile, a real, full smile, something I've never seen or thought was possible from Cora Shutter.

"Jason," she whispers as she holds her hands out towards the man in the chair.

In a moment he's up and embracing her, nearly lifting my mentor off the floor. "It's so good to see you again Cora. I didn't think I would see you again this year."

"Levi dragged you along this time?"

The man called Jason laughs. "I volunteered to come, actually. Vera and Connor are mentoring this year, so I thought we could get some time alone for once. Meet with a few sponsors, maybe, but relax. Especially after last year."

Cora reaches up and gently touches his face. "You know he was only trying to save his tribute."

"I know. It doesn't mean I wasn't angry and hurt. Thinking about other people touching him like that. But I know saving Connor was worth it to him. I just wish he had trusted me enough to tell me." Jason releases Cora from his bear-hug and glances back at me. "Speaking of which, your tribute this year is quite the interesting woman. I'm considering putting money on her already."

"Not that I wouldn't say no, but Levi would smother you in your sleep, you bastard," Cora's laugh is rich and full. She glances back at me and seems to see me, and my costume, for the first time. "Cecelia Rheys, what in Panem did that woman dress you as?!"

I try to answer but my breath is coming in labored gasps and my head is starting to spin.

"Cora," I manage to get out and then I'm looking at the ceiling before my vision goes black. I don't even feel myself hit the floor.

**I meant to get to the Parade with this chapter but the Capitolians are just too much fun to write, and I'm going to be delving more into the behind-the-scenes aspects of the Games in the future. And yes, Jason has returned to the Capitol. If you've read The Lumberjack and the Tree-Elf, you know that I'm linking both stories in the same world. Expect more.**

**Thanks to my reviews Clove'sAllies, stephanisusetmb, and MiraoftheBitterSea. I know it's tactless to ask for reviews, but they really do keep me writing, so if you're reading along and haven't reviewed yet, please consider it! If you don't, Cora will dress you like a district tramp and throw you into the Hunger Games.**


	7. Chapter 7

Cecelia:

"_Set her up here!"_

"_Stand back! She needs to breathe!"_

"_Get water, wine, anything!"_

"_I can't believe he snapped the steel. District men are such barbarians."_

"_Strong barbarians."_

"_Does anyone have any smelling salts?"_

A truly repugnant odor wafts under my nostrils and I cough violently. I try to bat away whatever is being held under my nose but my arm feels three times as heavy as usual. It's a struggle to open my eyes, but a few deep breaths of the horrid smell seem to burn away the fog that's clouding my mind and I slowly grow aware of my surroundings.

The first thing I see are Cora's black eyes peering into my own. She looks worried, frightened even. I can read my name on her lips but it's like the sound has been tuned to a bad frequency on one of the broken down radios in the district commune center. Around her are streaks and blurs of color as Capitol people huddle around me. One is holding a vial beneath my nose, and as my strength returns I make an effort to push his hand away. Another is fanning me with an enormous collection of feathers. Still more are pressing in around me, all shouting and calling things I can't understand even though my hearing is slowly returning. Cora yells something at them, but all I can think about is the desert my mouth has become and the splitting pain in my head.

"Water…please?"

A crystal goblet is held to my lips and the water that trickles down returns me to my senses faster than the smelling salts did. It also makes the pain in my head increase tenfold. I cry out, trying and failing to keep tears of pain from trickling down my cheeks. My stylist. He'll flay me here and now if I mess up my prep team's work. I can't…I have to…

I try to rise but hands push me back down into what I realize is one of the white leather chairs. Even that simple movement makes me cry out in pain again. I think voices are asking me what hurts, and I try to stammer out that it's my head, although I can't even tell if I managed to speak the words right. Another glass is pressed to my lips, this one smaller and filled with a clear fizzing liquid. I nearly choke at the bitter taste, but as soon as it flows down my throat the pain in my head clears and I come to my senses so fast I'm surprised I don't float off the ground for a moment.

There are nearly a dozen people all gathered around me, looking at me with anxious eyes and questions. Most of them are Capitol, and I don't recognize any of them. None of them are my prep team or my stylist. Someone one must have called for help when…when I…

"What happened?" I ask. "Why am I-"

"You fainted, Cecelia," says Cora. She's crouched in front of me, her eyes still fixed on me as if I'm going to start foaming at the mouth at any moment. "Your costume was too constricting and you passed out from lack of air."

My costume. It comes back to me in a rush. I look down and see that I'm still wearing the heavy steel dress. It feels like an iron prison against my skin. I remember the choking of the unyielding collar and my hands fly up to my throat in a panic. My fingers fumble for a moment until it registers that I'm taking deep, full breaths and I'm able to relax enough to feel for the collar. I look down and my eyes widen when I see that not only is the steel clasp torn off its setting, but that several of the metal links below it have been snapped as cleanly as I might tear an old strip of linen.

"Miss Shutter. How did you even get the clasp open? I couldn't make it budge."

Cora shoots a look over her shoulder, where through the multi-colored gaps of the Capitolians I can see Jason leaning against the wall, breathing heavily and perspiring a bit. His hands are bandaged and the cloth is stained red. My fingers touch the shattered steel and I look at the man from District 7 with something approaching awe.

"Jason," I manage to get out. He looks at me and gives me a wry grin.

"How are you feeling, Cecelia?"

"Better," I say. "Much better. Thanks to you."

I put my hands on the arm rests and slowly begin to push myself up. A chorus of voices rise in protest but I continue to struggle to my feet.

"Cecelia, you need to rest a bit. Have some more water."

"I have to," I say, my eyes only on my mentor. "Miss Shutter, there's not going to be a chair on the chariot. I have to be able to stand. I have to be sure that I can stand before the parade."

"I wish all my tributes had your sense. And how many times do I need to tell you to call me Cora?"

Nevertheless, Cora's hands are gentle as she helps me rise from the chair. The moment I'm on my feet, the crowd around me bursts into spontaneous applause. I try to smile and give a wave, but my arm feels like a piece of soggy bread. The crowd is chattering and suggesting everything from orange juice to a full-body massage, whatever that is, when a shrill voice cuts through the room.

"Well, I don't see what all the fuss is about. She doesn't look _that_ terrible. Actually, I think it's a rather impressive piece of work."

Agrippina has swooped into the room, her eyes darting to the crowd around us as I slowly walk towards the mirror in the center of the room.

"Agrippina Flutter. Shut up," hisses Cora as our escort turns up her nose. "That 'impressive piece of work' nearly killed our tribute before she stepped foot in the arena. We would have been explaining to our esteemed president why District 8 needed another reaping if it hadn't been for Jason. And of course all of these _wonderful_, _incredible_ people who rushed to our aid when I called for help."

The mention of President Snow makes Agrippina clamp her mouth shut as all around us the Capitolians break out into a chorus of "Don't mention it, anything to help a tribute and the Games!" I'm possessed by an insane desire to giggle until Cora shoots me a sharp look. The meaning is clear. We're still playing the Game, so play along with them.

"I just wanted to get the fainting out of the way early," I say in as loud a voice as I can muster. "It would have been so awkward if it had happened on the pedestal during the countdown."

It would have been more than awkward. I'd be blown to pieces by the hidden mines. My joke is a hit though, and the dozen people break out into gales of laughter. A few voices start calling out for wine and food, and red-clothed servants enter almost instantly, carrying trays with fruit and tiny sandwiches and tall flutes of red and white liquid. The servants don't say a word, and I know instinctively that these must be Avoxes, mute slaves who offended the Capitol in one way or another and paid for it with their voice and freedom.

"Looks like we're making a party of it," says Cora in a wry voice as several more Capitolians hear the commotion and join the party with vocal enthusiasm. She stands by my side, joined by Jason and Agrippina. "We may as well make the best of it and expose Cecelia to as many potential sponsors as we can. Her stylist certainly hasn't done her any favors."

"Oh, I don't know," says Agrippina as she adjusts her lipstick in the mirror. "I still think it's an interesting look. She almost looks like a District 2 tribute, in fact I remember something a lot like this during the Forty-Fifth Games, I think. Granted, it was the male tribute , but-"

"I'm sure he didn't pass out before he stepped foot on the chariot," Cora cuts across our escort. "I don't understand it. Tigris has been styling for just over a decade now. Sure she's eccentric, but she has enough sense to dress her tribute in something that won't kill them. Well, when she dresses them at all."

"My…my stylist is…" I try to get the words out but Agrippina talks over me like I'm not even here.

"Oh Tigris isn't her stylist this year. She was promoted to District Five. They've brought in someone new to replace her, some artist or painter from the National Gallery. Didn't I tell you?"

"No," says Cora through clenched teeth. "You neglected to mention that little detail."

"Oh. Well, now you know, so no harm done."

"And exactly where is this artist or painter from the Victory Gallery?"

Cora's question is made redundant as my stylist chooses this moment to sweep into the room, followed by Aegaea, Vespasiana, and Plautilla. His eyes widen when he sees the richly dressed Capitolians milling and chattering around the room. They narrow when his gaze falls on Agrippina, Cora, Jason and myself grouped together by the mirror. And then he sees me, and sees what has happened to the costume he designed for me, and he lets out a shriek that silences the room and causes an Avox to drop her tray, sending glass shattering across the floor.

"My opus! My art! The labor of my tender hands! What have you done to it?" He strides across the room, ignoring the gaping Capitolians, murder in his eyes. "You vile little district _ape_! Do have any idea how much that cost to make? How many hours I spent? I don't know who you think you are but-"

A shadow falls across my enraged stylist as Cora steps between us. Jason moves subtly to the right to form a wall to my stylist's side. Agrippina, eyes wide with shock, catches on a moment later and moves to the left. With the crowd of Capitolians at his back, my stylist suddenly finds himself surrounded by individuals who are not eying him with the reverence he gives himself.

"I think the question is, who exactly are you?" Cora's voice is colder than the tundra from the Games two years ago. "And why are you threatening my tribute?"

The man shrinks back for a moment before reasserting himself and turning a nose up at my mentor. "I am Hector, _artiste_ and transcendent soul, and –"

"I didn't ask for your opinion of yourself. Only who you were. I assume you are Cecelia's stylist."

"'Stylist' is a peasant's word. I am Hector, an _artiste_ and-"

"You're an idiot. A self-absorbed, foolish little twit who nearly killed this girl not twenty minutes ago. Did you give any thought to how she was supposed to breathe in the monstrosity you have the nerve to call a dress?"

"Such incompetence," mutters Agrippina, shaking her head. A couple of people snicker and it's this that makes Hector go red, then purple in the face.

"I don't recall having to come to you for your approval. You have destroyed a great work of art. I was chosen for this task by the Head Gamemaker himself."

"I'm sorry. I just realized that I don't care," says Cora. "I'm sure that you and I are going to have a nice, pleasant chat about what Cecelia will be wearing for her public appearances in the future. However, your task now is to make her at least presentable for the chariot rides, preferably in something that doesn't weigh more than she does."

"I have nothing more to offer. She either wears what you've rendered into a travesty, or goes naked. Your choice, Victor." Hector spats the last word out like a curse.

Cora's eyes narrow, and she smiles slightly. "Tell me, Hector. Does the name Chevy Jameson mean anything to you?"

"No. Why, should it?"

"He was the male tribute from District Six during the Twenty-Fifth Hunger Games. My first kill. I must say, you resemble him significantly. Same hair, same nose, same impression that you can cross me and win."

It's almost funny how quickly Hector's face goes from purple to stark white. Stretching himself out to his full height, which is still slightly shorter than Cora, he says, "I wash my hands of this sordid affair. You want her in something different, find it yourself. I will have no more to do with any of you until the interviews. Oh, how an _artiste_ is meant to suffer!"

Hector throws his arms up and marches out of the room. He hisses something to my prep team as he passes and Aegaea nods, her lips pursed. The silence that follows is broken by a dozen hushed conversations that break out as the Capitolians quickly gather to analyze this newest piece of Hunger Games drama.

"It's half an hour until line-up!" Agrippina's voice carries across the room. "We need to go down to the Avenue of the Tributes, all the best seats will be filling up!"

The crowd disappears in less time than I thought possible. Agrippina makes to follow them until Cora grabs her arm."

"You're the escort, aren't you? Why don't you do your job for once and escort Cecelia down to the parade grounds?"

"I...but…I was invited to…can't you do it?"

"I have sponsors to speak with. I have a tribute to save, after all. And Jason has never been to the lower levels. Don't you want the best chance to win, Miss Flutter? Think of the parties you'll be invited to then."

"Well, I suppose." Agrippina's lips jut out in a pout. "Cecelia, darling, I'll be waiting outside for you. I'm sure that your prep team has a few finishing touches to get you ready for your big day."

She walks out, already chatting on her handheld communication device. Cora rolls her eyes before looking at my waiting prep team in distaste.

"Forget what I said before. Don't let them do anything you think might endanger your chances of staying on that chariot. Jason, I'll save a couple seats for you and Blight. Cecelia, you'll be fine. Remember to smile. And wave, if you can manage it."

In a moment my mentor and the man from District Seven, who whispered 'Good luck,' before he left, are gone. My prep team surrounds me and touches up my makeup in silence.

Aegaea picks up the crystal crown and from the leather chair where someone set it. She narrows her eyes as she places it on my head.

"Your behavior reflects on all of us. Try to remember that and do better next time."

I want to tell her that maybe she should wear this steel dress and parade herself in front of the Capitol if she thinks she can do it better, but I hold my tongue. There's no sense in antagonizing my prep team after such a dramatic falling out with my stylist. Vespasiana gives me a pitying look, but keeps silent as she does a final dust down and then leaves with the others. Agrippina enters a moment later and motions that it's time to go down.

We take the lift down to the lowest level in silence. I only speak to ask where Loomer is and Agrippina replies that Woof took him down already. It leaves a sour feeling in my mouth, knowing that Woof isn't even bothering to look for sponsors because we all know that the simple sixteen year old stands no chance whatsoever in the brutal Games he's about to enter.

We're greeted by a blast of sound as the doors open to the prep area below the Remake Center. Dozens of people are rushing about, Peacekeepers are everywhere, horses are neighing shrilly, and everyone seems to be shouting. Agrippina and I walk past the other chariots where the tributes are gathered in pairs, waiting for the parade to start. I know I should take this chance to get a good look at my fellow competitors, but between the fear drying out my mouth and the fact that the weight of my dress requires all my concentration to keep from toppling over. I shuffle along, my eyes pointed at the floor, only half listening to the running commentary Agrippina is providing.

"District Seven as trees. How shocking. Oh, District Eleven has a new look, I like the colors! Hmmm, District Five looks rather cavalier, but I'm sure Tigris is eager to keep her good fortune going. Oh my, now that's something I'd love to be seen in!"

I glance at where Agrippina is pointing and stop in my tracks. Six tributes are standing together, talking by one of the chariots. It doesn't take much to realize that these are the Careers, the tributes from 1, 2 and 4 who are trained for the Games from a young age and then volunteer as tributes for the glory and riches. The tributes from 1 catch my eye. Usually, they're decked out in jewels and glitter, but their stylists have taken a different approach this year. The girl is dressed all in the purest white furs, and the boy is wearing nothing but a purple loincloth. Vines thick with grapes twist around his bare arms and chest. Furs and wines, from the luxury district. The Careers from 2 are dressed in bronze armor, a traditional nod to their status as the district with the most Victors. But it's District 4 who's the real stand out. They're dressed in sea-colored sarongs that gleam with shimmering and changing colors. They have nothing covering their chests except for ropes upon ropes of pearls that trail down almost to their feet. Matching headdresses are set upon their brows. They are stunning. The very image of what tributes should be.

_Remember that you are beautiful, _said Della before she left me in the Justice Building. I don't think I have ever felt less beautiful. In this awkward dress, I feel like a slow, ugly, burdened-down target.

"District Four looks incredible," sighs Agrippina, as if to drive the point home. "I'd give anything to be dressed by Madame Lucia, just once."

I gulp, trying to wet my parched throat. "Her…her tributes usually win, don't they?"

Agrippina gives me a sharp look. "Often. Not usually."

I don't reply because the girl from 4 has glanced over and noticed me staring at her. She gives me a quick glance over and then ignores me. I'm left with cold chills despite the summer heat.

"We're here! Now enjoy yourself, and don't forget to make them love you! I need to rush off, I have to grab a seat or I won't even be able to see the start of the parade!"

Agrippina is gone before I can ask how I'm supposed to _make_ people love me. I'm left standing at the chariot, almost in a daze before I realize that Loomer is already standing in place grinning down at me. He's dressed in silver and purple robes with a silly looking flat-topped hat resting on his head. At least his stylist had marginally more sense than mine.

"Hi Cecelia! Are you excited? Because I'm excited."

"Hi Loomer," I say. I'm mindful of what Cora told me about not interacting with my district partner but I can't help but give a small grin when I see his wide, excited eyes beneath the dark hair that flops over them.

"Where's Woof?" I ask.

"He…um…he went to sit with Miss Cora. He says that he'll bring back oranges _and_ bananas if I stand here good and wave at everyone and don't talk when the man with the white hair talks. Do you like bananas, Cecelia?"

"Very much," I say, even though I have no idea what in Panem a banana is. I place my hands on the side of the chariot and try to pull myself up, but the dress is so heavy that I fall back once, twice, three times.

"Here Cecelia," says Loomer as he grabs my arms and pulls. I fly up and forward into the chariot, grasping the front to keep myself from collapsing as I look at Loomer in surprise. He's much stronger than he looks.

The trumpets sound soon after and the anthem blasts out around us. Loomer laughs and claps his hands as the doors open wide to let out the chariot carrying District 1. The rest soon follow, and soon our four black horses march forward without command, trailing the tributes from 7 who are dressed as silver birches.

A rush of noise rises to meet us as our chariot glides through the doors into the warm, dusky air. The stands built around the Avenue of Tributes are jammed with thousands upon thousands of people. They toss roses and confetti out onto the paved road as the chariots glide past. Massive screens set up on either side show the images currently being broadcast to the entire nation. Currently they're focused on the terrified looking tributes from District 3.

I close my eyes and tell myself to take a deep breath. I can't fall into the river in my mind this time. I need to be aware. I can't look like a terrified little girl. Da is watching. Da, and Kerry, Carl, Crinoline, Paylor, even Della. I need to make them proud. I need to let them know I have yet to give up.

I raise my hand as high as the dress allows me and wave to the gathered crowds. Shouts and cheers erupt and I hear our names called on all sides as a thousand hands reach out as if to pluck us up. Our faces appear on the screens above and I'm relieved to see that my prep team has at least made my face recognizable, even attractive. The chariots thunder along the way until we reach the massive City Circle. Thousands more are waiting and cheering as the tributes assemble beneath the shadow of President Snow's mansion.

The man himself, the most powerful figure in all the world, stands and lifts a lazy hand to quiet the crowd. He gives his speech, the same one that he gives every year. I don't really listen having heard it many times before, instead taking the opportunity to study the man himself. His lips are wide, his eyes burn down at us even from this distance. His golden hair is streaked with a little more white each year. Loomer glances at me with excitement, but I put a finger to my lips and he remembers to keep silent.

I don't notice the end of the speech until the chariot moves beneath me and I clutch the side before I fall. The way back is not nearly as invigorating, mainly because I'm trying my hardest not to topple over as the dress feels heavier than ever. Finally, the doors close behind us and I stumble from the chariot, nearly gasping in relief.

A shadow falls over me as I lean down, trying to regain my breath. I straighten up and see another boy standing in front of me, smiling. Well, not a boy really. A young man, dressed as a silver birch tree. District 7. The eighteen year old who volunteered. He's looking at me, at my face, my breasts, the curve of my hips, in a way that I know all too well.

"You're very pretty, District 8. Too pretty to go into these Games. It's a shame really. It would have been fun to get to know each other."

"Please let me pass," I say, and I make to move around him. The dress slows me up, however and he easily sidesteps, trapping me between his body and the side of the chariot.

He's much too close to me. "Now girl, just because we've only got a few days doesn't mean we can't have some fun in the meantime. Maybe we can meet up after the gym tomorrow for some private training. Or we could make an alliance. I could use some company in the beginning. I'd protect you, you keep me warm. How about it, darling?"

"Luckie. Let's go." His copper-haired district partner stands behind him, tapping an impatient finger. "Vera and Connor are waiting for us."

His hands are roaming over my body, across my neck and breasts. I try to break away again. "Please. Let. Me. Pass."

He squeezes my breast, hard. "Mind your place, wench. I've met your kind before. The teasing act can fun, but we don't have time for it. Maybe I should come to floor eight tonight and we can –"

"Is he bothering you, Cecelia?"

A white-clad arm reaches out and pulls District 7 off me. My heart soars in relief and then plummets again when I see my rescuer. Britannicus. The only one who could make this worse.

"Mind your place, district boy," he says as he shoves District 7 to the side. "Leave the woman alone."

"Tanni, leave it alone," I say. He ignores me.

District 7 sneers at him. "Make me, Capitol-dog. You're as district as me, aren't you? And I'll take what I want, when I want."

"Luckie, are you a fool?! He's a Peacekeeper, dammit!"

Luck ignores his district partner as he glares at Tanni. The Peacekeeper meets his eyes, daring him to push him, and all it takes is for the boy from 7 to reach back towards my breast for Tanni to tackle him to the ground.

The girl from 7 is shouting, I'm trying to dash off, but my dress holds me up and I trip and fall. Eyes all fly to our direction and I barely get to my feet before a voice breaks through the din.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!"

The two men leap to their feet as Woof glares down at them, his face etched with anger.

"District Seven, isn't it? Go. Now. And I'll have a word with your mentors."

The man from 7 gives him a contemptuous glance but finally realizes that he's outnumbered and way out of his game. He marches off, followed by his district partner, who gives me a cool look before she turns.

"It's Britannicus, I believe?"

The Peacekeeper eyes the Victor, seizing up his opponent, before deciding the question isn't too offensive. "Yes."

"I think you need to go. I can't order you to do anything, but I can warn you that I can make things very difficult here for you if you trouble our tributes further. Victors have many friends. Even the old ones."

Tanni glances at me. "Celia," he says before Woof interrupts him.

"Cecelia is a tribute. I would leave. Now."

Tanni gives me one more regretful look and walks away. I'm left alone with Woof.

"Can't keep out of trouble, can you girl?"

"I couldn't do anything. He trapped me."

"You better start learning how to do something for yourself. No one is going to rescue you in the arena." Woof gives me a stern look and rubs his arm where a scythe bit deep into it in the arena many years ago. "Where's Loomer?"

"He's-" I turn to the chariot only to find it empty. "I don't know," I mumble.

Woof's face is hard. "I better find him then. Think you can make your way up to the apartment without causing any riots?"

I nod and he disappears into the crowd, leaving me to wonder what else could possibly go wrong.

**Well, after the last update one thing is very apparent. Asking for reviews with big puppy eyes really does work. Sheepish grin.**

**Thanks to all my reviewers: Oxenstierna D. Yuki-Rin, Kiliflower, Mintjellyfish, Clove'sAllies, MiraoftheBitterSea, Spaidel, Anla'shok, and Vaan Levy! Your reviews are always so appreciated. If you're following along and haven't left a review yet, it's a great time to start!**

**I know how hard it is to give yourself shameless promotions on here, so here's a shout out to some great work by some of my reviews that I've read this week. **_**Underdog,**_** by Kiliflower, which is shaping up to be an interesting work about the first District 12 Victor. **_**Roulette,**_** by Mintjellyfish, a fantastic rendition of a tribute from District 10. And **_**Showdown**_**, by Anla'shok, which I've only just started but I'm sure is going to become a favourite.**

**Keep reading, keep reviewing, but most importantly, keep writing!**


	8. Chapter 8

Britannicus:

"Tanni! You bastard, over here!"

The canteen at HeadQuarters is packed with nearly two hundred Peacekeepers, all in the same white uniform, or in various stages of dress. A low buzz fills the air, as dozens of eyes watch the reaping reviews and commentators on the huge screens. It's almost like District 2 again right before the Games. The same edge, the same excitement and energy. And of course the same oaf standing on a chair and waving at me frantically from across the massive room.

"For Panem's sake, Clay, will you sit down before you fall and crack your head open? I'll be there in a minute!"

He flashes me a dirty sign but sits down. I laugh to myself and cross the room to the long counters where Avoxes are serving breakfast. The sun glints down through the arched glass ceiling, sending rainbows dancing in patterns across the white uniforms. Everything is white, clean and airy. The Avoxes silently pile my plate with eggs and bacon and bread studded with raisins and nuts. Dammit, I'm definitely in the Capitol.

Clay claps me on my back as I sit down next to him. I flash a smile at Vatallia next to him and give a wink to Shale on her right. It's strange to have the old crew back together. Only three years ago all four of us were in District 2, laughing, training, arguing, and fighting alongside each other in the Training Center. Obviously, none of us were selected to compete in the Hunger Games, so we all joined the Peacekeepers to avoid a lifetime of working in the stone and iron mines. Shale went first, to District 5. Vatallia has been here in the Capitol since she left. And then Clay and I graduated, we both failed the Choosing, and we were bundled off to Districts 1 and 8, respectively.

Breakfast quickly descends into the typical routine of old jokes, mockery, and laughter, as if we had never left District 2. My mates are engrossed in the conversation but I can't help feel distracted. I laugh where I'm supposed to and drop a line about Clay's penchant for picking up desperate women, but my eyes keep flickering up to the walls around us. Twenty massive screens are mounted above the crowd of Peacekeepers, all playing programs devoted to the Games. Some are replaying the reapings, others the parade, still others show the Games commentators and guests seated around on couches discussing the odds. I catch a glimpse of long brown hair to my left and watch the clip of Cecelia being pulled into the City Circle, looking fierce and beautiful. I wish I could have been there, cheering her name instead of the thousands of people who have never _touched_ her, never _met_ her, never felt the curve of her breast or seen her eyes light up when you –

"Tanni!" Vatallia's voice breaks through my daydream like the whip she carries around her belt. "Are you even there?"

"What – oh – sorry, Vee. What were you saying?"

She curls her lip in the terrifying way that is her way of smiling. "I was asking if you have a girl in your backwater district yet. Clay has at least twelve little blondies from One warming him up at night. Have you caught up yet, dog?"

"I…uh…no. I mean, I don't have twelve. Just one. Well, sort of. She's sort of…well she's different."

"C'mon, tell! What's her name, how big are her breasts, does she put out or do you have to get a bit persuasive with the bitch?" Clay is laughing as he punches my shoulder.

"She's not…well, it's not like that."

"Wait until we get to Samson's tonight after shifts," says Vatallia with a smirk. "A few ales will get it out of him. It'll be nice to have something to rib you about, Tanni. Clay's no fun because he has no shame."

Clay punches her as I look around for a change of subject. I catch sight of the screen broadcasting the reaping from District 1. "So, what are the odds? Any of you placed your money somewhere yet?"

Shale leans forward, his eyes bright. While we all enjoy the Games, Shale's obsessed with them. They've been his favorite topic of conversation since he was twelve.

"It's definitely going to be a Career year," he says. "The outlying districts have had too many victories recently, and the hardcore Career supporters are getting quite vocal in their disapproval. And this year's crop are all strong. No weak links, could be any of them."

"Well, let's start with what we know," says Vatallia. Who are the tributes from Two? I didn't recognize either of them."

"The girl was a year behind us," says Clay, gesturing at me and himself. "Pomponia is very good. She was a certain for this year ever since she was fourteen and stabbed Vitellius through the eye when he tried to beat her after she defeated one of his protégés."

Vatallia winces. "Sounds like a real charmer. Why did I never see her in knife throwing? I knew all of those girls."

"She prefers swords." I say. "I had to go against her once, last year. Lasted maybe forty seconds. Still have the mark." My fingers unconsciously go to my shoulder where a long, thin scar runs down to my chest.

"What about the boy? He's seventeen a year early. He must be good, but I don't recognize him at all."

"Neither do I," says Shale.

I shrug, as the boy is totally unfamiliar to me as well. It's Clay who speaks up.

"His name is Ferrus. Quarry kid. Orphan I think. His parents were killed when he was young. He was really quiet at the Training Center. Never spoke out of place, was never disciplined, won a few matches but lost more. No friends. No rivals either."

Vatallia crinkles her nose. "So how did he end up in the Capitol? I thought Graecinus was a certain for this year."

"He was hiding," says Shale, his eyes alight with the fervid glow they get when he talks about the Games. "I'd bet sesterces to rubble that he was keeping his abilities a secret the whole time, for years, knowing that when the Choosing came he'd be vastly underestimated. I wonder if Graecinus even survived."

"So he's one to watch," I say.

Shale nods. "I know who I'm putting my money on. Anyone want to pitch in? I'll pay you back when Ferrus wins the crown."

Vatallia laughs. "For Panem's sake, Shale, they haven't even given scores yet. Hold on to your money until after the interviews at least. It won't do you any good if District One gets a drop on your boy."

Shale sneers. "One needs sponsors to win, and neither of them are exceptional this year." He looks back up to the screens. "Zinfandel and Mink. Cousins, but nothing more noteworthy."

Vatallia gives a start of surprise. "They're cousins? And they volunteered to compete against each other?"

"Don't they know that at least one of them has to die for the other to come home?" I ask, looking up at the images of the dark haired boy called Zinfandel and his fair-haired cousin grinning down at me.

Clay gives a snort. "I've spent a year in District One. Family devotion means very little there, at least for the wealthy families. Zinfandel's parents run the biggest winery in the district and little Mink's father is a famous furrier. Neither family has a Victor though, and the glory and wealth the Games bring is worth more to their parents than one dead cousin."

"Shame that they're both going to die and make it all pointless," laughs Shale, and the rest of us join in.

"What about Four?" I ask. "Any competition?"

Shale nods. "The boy has the most sponsors thus far, especially after the parade. He's huge, he's trained, and he's handsome. One to watch."

"Sponsors mean nothing," says Vatallia. "Five days into the Games, no one can afford anything that can change the odds."

"It's what they get in those five days that matters," says Clay. "The girl looks like a mean one too. I'd put money on her if she wasn't fifteen."

As if she could hear us, the image of the girl from 4, whose name is apparently Andromache, gives a scowl and folds her arms.

"Anyone else?" asks Vatallia. "Seven? Ever since Blight won they've had one in the top eight every year."

Shale shakes his head. "The girl is nothing special, and the boy thinks he's going to repeat what Connor did last year. Look at the big oaf. He doesn't have Connor's brain or his desperation. Bloodbaths, both of them."

"That should be it," says Vatallia. "Definitely a Career year."

"What about Eight?" I say quietly. "What do you think the chances are?"

Clay looks at me incredulously and bursts out laughing. "You mean the Tard? You're kidding, right? He won't last five meters off the plate."

"No, I meant the girl. Cecelia."

Shale gives her image a glance. "She's pretty enough. She looked half decent at the parade, she'll probably get a couple sponsors on her looks alone. But she's not trained at all. If she runs at the bloodbath, she's probably last for a couple of days. Until Ferrus and Pomponia hunt her down."

I bite my lip to keep from speaking. Vatallia gives me a look.

"Why the interest, Tanni? You know what happens in the Games. Did you know her or something?"

"I've seen her around," I say with a dismissive gesture. "Her brother has caused a bit of trouble before. Nothing special."

But Clay is giving me a look, that look he's always had since we were twelve years old and sleeping in adjoining bunks in the Training Center. The man can read me like a book. Well, he can't read, but it's the same thing.

"That's her, isn't it?"

"Who?" I ask, too sharply.

"The girl! The one you're into. Your girlfriend from the district!"

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

"It is! You wouldn't be blushing if it weren't!"

Sure enough, I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. Shale's eyes widen. Vatallia claps a hand over her mouth.

"Stone and swords, Tanni! I can't believe it. I'm really sorry."

"She doesn't have a chance, mate. You know that, right?"

"I know, Shale," I snap. "I don't need you to tell me."

Clay puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. "Rum luck. If you're lucky it'll be quick."

"I…I just wish I could see her again," I say.

"Can't you?" asks Vatallia. "You're assigned to tribute quarters, aren't you?"

"Her mentor's a real bitch. She's trying to keep me away from her. Thinks I mean to hurt her or something."

Clay's eyes light up. "I have an idea. I have an idea. I have a great idea, because I am a total genius. Gods, I'm brilliant. Stay right there!" And before any of us can say a word, he's jumped off the bench and raced down the length of the canteen.

I give Shale and Vatallia a bemused look. Vatallia rolls her eyes, but Shale is looking at me more intently than usual.

"You know," he says. "There might be a way for you to help your girl out."

"There is?" Vatallia and I ask together.

"Skinner."

"No," says Vatallia, shaking her head. "Shale, that's a _terrible_ idea."

"Who's Skinner?"

Shale nods towards a table about twenty meters from ours. It's filled with Peacekeepers, of course, but they all look like some sort of gang. They've claimed a table that can seat at least twenty more, but no one seems inclined to join them. In fact, no one really looks their way for very long. At the head of the table is an enormous man with a shaved head and blond goatee, leaning back with his feet on the table. His jacket is off, and muscles bulge under the grey military-issued wifebeater. Tattoos entwine themselves around his arms and neck. His ears and eyebrows are pierced multiple times. As if he feels my stare, his eyes meet mine for the briefest of moments. A cold chill runs down my spine and I look away.

"Skinner, huh?"

"No one knows where he came from," says Vatallia. "He's not from Two, and he's too, I don't know, _hardened_ to be from the Capitol. He's been in five different districts in the past five years. He's the best torturer the Peacekeepers have. That's how he got his name. Skinner."

"So, what makes you think he can help Celia?"

Shale leans forward. "You know the business side of being a Victor, I presume?"

I nod. Sponsors can buy a Victor for a night of congratulations after they've won. It's an open secret in District 2, or at least in the Training Center.

"Well, Skinner runs the biggest sponsorship circle in the Peacekeepers. You pay into it, he chooses who to sponsor, and makes bets. If the tribute he picks wins, he'll get enough sesterces from the bets to buy a night with the Victor. Anyone who contributed is entered into a drawing to share her or him with Skinner for a night."

"So he might sponsor Cecelia?"

"If you can convince him to. His sponsorship helped saved Wiress four years ago."

"And you don't want to know what he did to her afterwards," snaps Vatallia. "This is a terrible idea, Shale. Just let the girl die. Tanni won't have trouble finding a replacement, not in District 8."

"How do I convince him to sponsor Cecelia?" I ask, wincing at the note of desperation in my voice.

Shale shrugs. "No idea. Was just a thought."

"I-" My voice breaks when I see Vatallia glaring at me. "I'll think about it."

The bell marking the end of the morning meal chimes just as Clay dashes back.

"I am a genius. I am completely brilliant. Tanni, c'mon!"

He grabs my arm and pulls me away. I barely have enough time to shout a good-bye to Shale and Vatallia before I'm caught up in the mass of white uniforms making their way out of the canteen.

"Clay, what are you doing? I need to report for my shift."

"Don't you need to see where you've been assigned first?" Clay asks with a grin.

I roll my eyes. "I came with the delegation from Eight. I'm assigned to the Tribute Center, slate-for-brains."

"Check again," says Clay with a twinkle in his eyes.

He pulls me to the huge screens set up outside the canteen. Every Peacekeeper in the city is listed here, along with their daily assignments and immediate superior. I find my name easily enough and follow the line to where it should tell me to report to floor eight of the Tribute Center. But it doesn't.

_Britannicus Romano – Training Gymnasium – 0900 hours._

I have to look from my assignment to Clay and back three times before it sinks in.

"Clay…what…how did you?"

"I'm teaching maces down there. You know I'm the best. I pulled a few strings and got you assigned down there too. Wasn't too hard, for a genius."

I give him a one armed hug. "You really are the best, mate." I check the clock above the screens. "Slate and shit, we're going to be late!"

Laughing, we dash through the atrium of HeadQuarters and out into the Capitol streets. The sun is shining down, reflecting against the metal and glass buildings, the golden domes and silver statues, the fountains and flowerbeds. In a way, I'm glad I never was chosen to be a tribute. Running along the streets of the Capitol with Clay, knowing I'm about to see Cecelia at her first day of training, is good enough for me.

The Training Center is halfway across the Capitol, but we're not even breathing heavily by the time we arrive thanks to our years of training. We take the lift down to the gymnasium and walk out into a mass of people setting up stations or sparring casually with each other. A tall, dark-skinned woman approaches us with a stern look as we cross the room.

"You're late," she says. "Names?"

"Clay Quarryman and Britannicus Romaro. Newly assigned. We apologize for our tardiness."

"I don't have time for apologies, just be on time tomorrow. Make sure you change into the training uniforms before the tributes arrive. Quarryman, you're all set at the mace station. Jonai will be your superior. Romaro, I didn't have record of you being assigned here until fifteen minutes ago. What were you trained in back in Two?"

"Everything," I say. "But swords were my specialty."

The woman rolls her eyes. "Everyone wants to be a swordsman. Any specialties?"

"Rapier was my blade of choice, ma'am."

She raises an eyebrow. "Perfect, actually. Report to the sword station. Gaius is your superior."

I nod and head to the station, giving Clay another nod of thanks as I leave. Gaius greets me cordially and familiarizes me with the array of blades the tributes are provided to train with. After changing into the grey uniform provided I pick up a blade and start a pattern dance, my hands and feet melting into the familiar routine. I'm so caught up that I don't notice the chime of the lift until I hear the dark-skinned woman's voice crack out.

"Tributes are in the lift! Man your stations!"

The various instructors scatter to their stations and stand at attention, arms folded behind their backs, eyes ahead. I imitate them as the tributes from District 5 are ushered into the gymnasium by their escort. They look around, intimidated by the huge room and the fact that they're the first ones here. The woman motions them over as the tributes from 1 spill out from the lift. The rest arrive in quick succession. Cecelia and her Tard partner are among the last to arrive. The Tard claps like an idiot when he looks around the room. Cecelia immediately distances herself from him and joins the circle around the dark-haired woman. She looks terrified, but that won't last. I'll make sure she knows she doesn't have to worry about anything here.

Once the tributes from 11, arrive, the woman claps her hands for silence. The tributes look at her with either equal or terrified eyes, but they all give her their absolute attention.

"My name is Atala, and I am in charge of training you for the Fifty Seventh Annual Hunger Games. What you do in here will affect you from the moment the gong sounds to the moment your cannon rings. Only one of you will hear the trumpets at the end of the Games. Who that is depends on what you do in the time provided for you. There are fifteen survival stations and fifteen weapons stations. I advise you to at least spend a few minutes at each. Pace yourselves. You have ten hours today, ten tomorrow, and four on your third day. Each station has instructors whose job it is to help you. Do not be afraid to ask questions. Fighting with another tribute is strictly forbidden. Your training starts…now."

The tributes break off into different directions. Some stand around looking like wounded deer, staring at Atala or at the instructors or the twenty-four Gamemakers surveying the scene from their private box. Most of the tributes from the lower districts head to the survival stations. A few join the Careers in heading for the weapons.

I try to catch Celia's eye, but she doesn't notice me as she heads towards edible plants. The Tard makes his way towards the knot tying station, to the instructor's evident exasperation. I try to watch Cecelia, try to see if she's scared or if she's keeping it under control, but then the girl from One approaches the station and picks up a rapier. She nods imperiously towards me. I pick up my own blade and engage her.

She's good, but not the best. Not as good as a District 2 tribute by a long shot. After half an hour she's tired out and I'm sweating a bit as well. I give her a few tips on her stance that she doesn't acknowledge.

"Listen to the man, Mink," says her cousin, who's swinging a broadsword at Gaius. "He may just save your life."

"If I were you I'd pay attention to your opponent and not me, Zin. Or your cannon will sound after the bloodbath."

As if to accentuate her point, Gaius gives Zin a quick slap on the rump with the flat of the blade. Zin scowls and throws down the blade before stalking off. Mink gives a little laugh and winks at me. I nod back, knowing she's no doubt looking for another sponsor, and she heads off towards the archery station.

I duck out for a moment and grab a drink from the fountain in the corner. When I return, Pomponia is standing with a blade in hand, grinning at me.

"Britannicus Romano. Fancy crossing blades with you again."

"Pomponia. It's good to see you here."

She grins. "As if there was ever any doubt. Shall we begin?"

I nod and she lunges at me. I barely have time to parry as she tries to drive me back into a corner. I fall into the pattern dance, trying to surprise her, but Pomponia knows all my tricks and then some. But she's not using them. I last for two, five, ten minutes against her. Even at the height of my abilities I was never able to last more than a minute.

"Hiding your true abilities, Pomponia? Smart," I gasp.

She smiles as she pushes her sweaty hair from her face. "What my allies don't know won't hurt them. And I don't want to cut you again. You know how the Capitolians get when it comes to blood on their nice, clean floors."

This earns a bark of laughter and she takes advantage of my amusement to attack me again. I manage to hold her off for a couple minutes. She falls back for a moment, catching her breath, and something catches my eyes. I glance over to where Cecelia is kneeling at the fire station, trying to light a pile of kindling. The copper haired girl from 7 is trying to engage her in conversation, but Celia is stubbornly ignoring her. The girl from 12 stands nearby, watching. I glance back just in time to see the blade coming at my neck. I block it, but my concentration is off and Pomponia's next maneuver cuts into my arm, sending droplets of blood scattering across the floor.

"You haven't changed Tanni. Never able to give all your concentration to the task at hand."

I smile ruefully. "You haven't changed at all either, Pomponia. Well, you're more ruthless."

She grins. "That's what I like to hear. Well, I'll let you clean up. A pleasure, Britannicus." She bows and heads off.

Two Avoxes are already mopping the blood-splattered floor while a Capitol medic bandages my arm. The cut is shallow, and the Capitol medicine cream numbs the pain as the skin knits itself together at an accelerated rate. In fifteen minutes I'm back at it again.

Most of the Careers try out swords over the course of the morning, as well as a couple of the other tributes. The girl from 4 is decent for her age. Her partner does nothing but hurl spears at dummies all morning. Ferrus from 2 is terrible. His form, stance, and grip are all off, and he only barely manages to hold me off time and time again. But neither am I able to disarm him, or land what would be a killing blow.

"Why don't you stop this game and show me what you can really do?" I ask as he just barely manages to jump out of my way for the tenth time.

He smiles. "Where would the fun be in that?" His voice is strange for a boy, like the whisper of the wind through the limestone caverns in 2. I'm starting to think that Shale is right. He's the one to watch.

Just before lunch, the boy from 7 swaggers over to the station. He holds out a hand with an arrogant look on his face. I hold back laughter as it's clear he doesn't remember that I'm the one who punched him in the stomach last night.

"Aspen Woodman. Call me 'Luckie.' Tribute from District Seven and this year's Victor."

I shake his hand, making sure to give it an extra tight squeeze. "Are you any good with swords, Luckie?"

He shrugs. "How hard can it be? I'm sure I'll do fine."

He's terrible.

"Maybe you should stick with axes," I say after I disarm him for the fourth time. "Or try maces. They're a lot like an ax. Just swing and hope you make contact."

The man gives me a disgusted look and stalks off. He heads to the mace station. I grin, knowing that Clay will give me hell later.

The lunch bell rings a short time later. The trainers take lunch together, separate from the tributes. When I return to my station, a huge grin breaks out across my face. Cecelia is there, trying to swing a sword she can barely lift. I pick up a rapier and walk up behind her, my footsteps silent.

"Why don't you try this one, Celia?" I whisper in her ear.

She drops the sword in shock. "Tanni! What…how…what are you doing here?"

"Making sure you're ready for the arena, of course. Try this blade. It's better for your weight and strength."

She takes the rapier and gives it a few swings. "It does feel better," she says.

"So has Cora come up with a strategy for you yet?"

She nods. "I need to learn how to handle one weapon and ignore the others. It's no good trying to learn them all, just to be the best I can with one."

"You won't become a Career in three days," I say. "But knowing how to use one of these could give you an element of surprise."

I stand behind her and put my hand on her waist. I feel my heart beating faster. "Hold the blade like this." I adjust her fingers with my own. "Turn your body like this." I pull her hips towards me. "Perfect," I say, as I look at her beautiful hair cascading down her shoulders. I learn forward and start to kiss her ear.

She pulls away immediately. "Tanni. Stop."

I look at her, confusion welling in me. "But…why? That was always one of your favorite things back home."

"I can't…I don't…not _here_," she says with a fierce look.

I nod. "No, you're right. I don't want to distract you. Here, hold the blade up like this, and I'll teach you the basic pattern dance."

Cecelia bites her lip and glances around, looking like she wants to escape somewhere – anywhere – else. She's probably just nervous. I take her through the paces slowly and deliberately. She catches on fast, even though her body isn't built for such physical exertion. After twenty minutes she sets down her blade to catch her breath.

"That was good, Celia. Really excellent." I say as I walk up to her. "You look even more beautiful with a sword in your hand." I snag an arm around her waist as she tries to pick up her blade and plant a kiss on her lips.

She breaks away from me as if I burned her. "Tanni, no! Don't, just don't touch me!"

"Celia, what's wrong? I know you're scared but-"

"Just don't touch me! I don't want anyone to touch me!" She gives me a dismayed look and dashes off, hiding behind the trees set up in the snare section before I have time to speak.

I look over to where Clay is raising an eyebrow at me. "Nerves," I mouth to him and he grins.

The rest of the training period passes in a blur. I end up working with most of the tributes at one time or another, and I'm fairly confident I could say which have a fighting chance and which won't last the first day. After ten hours, the bell chimes and the tributes file towards the lift back to their quarters. I try to catch Cecelia before she leaves but she jumps up, grabs her partner and is one of the first ones out of the gymnasium. I shrug. I'm sure I'll see her tomorrow.

My shift is officially done, and I'm grateful for a hot shower and a hotter meal. Clay sticks by my side, ribbing me good naturedly about scaring off my girlfriend in the middle of the gymnasium. I laugh even though he doesn't understand. He puts on and removes girls like shirts. He doesn't know what it's like to have what Cecelia and I have.

That night sees me at Samson's, the enormous ten-story nightclub that's one of the places to be seen in the Capitol. Vatallia, Shale, Clay and I claim a corner in the eighth floor, chatting and gossiping about the various Capitolians who trip by. Vatallia has some amusing anecdotes about all the government officials we see and Clay points out at least ten women he's bedded since he's arrived here. Although I must say he doesn't seem to be doing nearly as well as the man from District 6 who is sitting across from us. Mitt won the Games two years ago and is now surrounded by five women all hanging on to him. He's got a dozen empty drinks in front of him and a dozen more vials of morphling that he's downing between them. I'm frankly shocked that he can even focus on the red-head who's groping him in front of the whole club.

"So how was seeing your girl, Tanni? She taking advantage of her training?"

I nod. "It was great. Really great. I think Cecelia has a real chance."

Shale nods and Vatallia gives me a sad look. I don't meet their eyes, instead choosing to down another shot.

There's a commotion as Skinner and his crew enter the club. Even the Capitolians hush their conversation when he passes. The crowd at the bar falls back and he makes his way to the bartender without encumbrance. The bartender gulps visibly.

I look up at the viewing boards where the odds from the games are being displayed. Cecelia is there of course, giving a small smile as her odds change from 1 – 42 to 1 – 65.

I look over to Skinner, who's standing over a Capitolian who's sporting a bleeding nose. I look back towards the odds. Then back to the huge Peacekeeper.

"Save my spot," I say. "There's something I need to do."

"Tanni," says Vatallia, but I ignore her and push my way through the crowd of laughing, drunken people.

"Excuse me. Coming through. Excuse me."

I push for ten minutes but make no progress. I'm desperate, terrified that Skinner will up and leave before I can get to him, but suddenly the crowd shifts and I'm standing in front of the giant as he looks down at me with clear blue eyes.

"Something you need, moss-wipe?" he asks.

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. "Yes. Um, yes sir. I was wondering if…maybe if you could…"

"If you don't spit out the words you'll be spitting out teeth. I don't have very much patience, as my mates here could tell you."

Low chuckles erupt around me. I take a deep breath and meet Skinner's eyes.

"There's a tribute I need to talk to you about. A girl."

"Really," says Skinner with a twisting smile. "This should be interesting."

That's the moment I begin to wonder if I haven't made a huge mistake.

**I know it was a long wait for this update, and I apologise. It was a combination of my personal life interfering with my, well, my everything and a bit of a writer's block when it came to writing from Tanni's point of view. This is the chapter I'm most unsure about, so your feedback is very much looked forward to.**

**I also know that I've promised to read and review the work from some of you, and let me assure you I have not forgotten. It's been a long couple weeks, my personal life refuses to leave me alone and that's distracted me from my writing. I know you all understand. That being said, it's good to be back in Panem. Thanks to Missy01, stephenisusetmb, Kiliflower, Clove'sAllies, iWolfy, Vaan Levy, Roxiblilly, Mattii16, MiraoftheBitterSea, and Anla'shock for your great reviews and feedback! Next update will be back to Cecelia!**


	9. Chapter 9

Cecelia:

I'm one of the first ones out of the gymnasium after the first day of training, and from the moment I leave I have trouble breathing. Shallow gasps wrack my body as the stress of the day hits me. Edible plants. Fire building. Rock climbing. And sword fighting. Tanni whispering in my ear. Kissing me. The walls of the Red closing in around me, and the cracks in the ceiling above snaking down, twisting like veins, threating to burst in a cascade of water and blood, drowning me in the river.

I close my eyes and lean against the wall in the hallway, telling myself to get a grip. It was just training. A good day of training actually. I managed to get to all the stations that Cora instructed me to this morning at breakfast. I'm confident that I can relate back every edible plant at the station that she demanded I memorize. I managed at most of the other stations with varying degrees of success. Even sword fighting wasn't so bad. I know I'm terrible, as I have no training whatsoever, but hopefully I'll be able to develop enough skill in the next two days to at least get through the bloodbath, something the tributes from my district rarely manage. Even those who try to flee are often cut down by the much faster and ruthless Careers.

I open my eyes to see that most of the tributes have past me by, disappearing into the lifts at the far end of the passageway. Only the boy and girl from District 5 remain. They don't look at me as they shuffle past, his eyes cast down, hers filled with tears. Soren and Electra are their names, if I remember their reaping correctly. A sharp pain twists in my stomach as I register that in five days, this boy and girl will probably be dead.

Electra's eyes meet mine for the briefest of moments, and I see something in them before she looks away and presses the button to take her up to the apartments. It takes a moment to realize that it's pity. But why would she pity me? What have I done to earn such a look?

And that is when I comprehend, truly comprehend for the first time since the reaping, that I am going to die. Because even the weakest tributes are looking at me like I am looking at them. We are all dead boys and girls, corpses who are still walking around for a few short days. And a scream of grief and panic rises in my throat.

I run to the lift, the boy and girl from 5 having mercifully disappeared moments ago. I pound the button so hard I'm sure it must shatter under my fist. I wait in agony until it chimes and the door opens, and then I proceed to similarly abuse the button for the eighth floor until the lift soars upwards and the doors swing open.

Yesterday after the parade I spent long minutes simply gawking at the luxury of the tribute apartments, at the polished metal and glass dining table, the silver dishware, the dozens of electronic appliances that do who knows what. Today I barely give it a glance as I bolt from the lift towards my room at the far end of the floor. I ignore the shocked looks of the Avoxes who stand at attention, don't give a glance at Agrippina as she gives an indignant shout, not stopping until I pull the door to my room open and throw myself into the silken comforter and let my sobs heave out.

I grasp the cloth of the sheets in my fists as my tears soak the cerulean silks. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scents of lavender that seem to permeate the entire room although I still haven't found its source. The sheets seem to wrap me in a hug. A hug from home. The fabrics beneath me were no doubt made in the factories of District 8. In fact, my father may have touched these very sheets as he stood on the warehouse floor, monitoring the massive looms as they churn out hundreds of yards of silk a minute. My Da, working his fingers to the bone as coughs wrack his body and the soot and filth of the factory fills his already worn lungs.

"Oh Da," I whisper. "I don't think I can do this. I can't. They're too good. The others are just too good."

Try as I might, I can't stop the memories from today's training from running through me like one of the Capitol films where they show rushed images of the Dark Days and the bombing of District 13. The boy and girl from 1 treated the swords like an extension of their bodies, dazzling the rest of the tributes with their speed and skill. The girl from 2 was even more impressive, her whole body dancing around the exercise floor without effort. The boy from 4 destroyed six dummies in a row with perfectly thrown spears. And I learned about plants.

I don't know how long I lay there, alternatively crying and cursing myself for being such a coward. I do no help for my father or my sister or, yes, even Della by sobbing into my pillow. But each time I try to rise up so I can leave and get something to eat, the faces of the Careers sear into my memory and the tears flow again. It does no good trying to fall into the river like I always did while I lay on my back in the Red. The terror of the Hunger Games is so much more potent than selling my body ever was.

Dimly I register Cora's voice in the background. I think she's calling my name. I can't summon the energy to lift my head from the pillow so I can't be sure. Until the voice cracks like a whip just outside my door.

"Cecelia Rheys, if you are not in the sitting room and presentable in ten minutes, I swear by Snow I'll send you nothing but pebbles in the arena. Get to it, girl!"

Somehow the force of the command is enough to lift me off the bed. I look into the enormous, golden mirror opposite me and cringe at my red-rimmed eyes and tangled hair. Cora said ten minutes and presentable, but she's not going to get both. I'm taking a shower.

Twenty minutes later I step out of the incredible miracle that is the Capitol showers. I smell of lemon and seagrass, and some sort of device on the floor sends an electrical shock through my body, instantly drying me and setting my hair down into full, untangled curls. The sweaty tunic and trousers I wore to the gymnasium have disappeared, no doubt taken by a silent Avox, and a deep purple dressing gown and black trousers, both of the softest velvet, have been laid out on my bed. I pull them on and step out of the room, hoping that Cora's wrath will not have grown with my delay.

I hear the sounds of the electronic games Loomer is so enamored with as I pass by his door and step into the sitting room. Cora is sitting on one of the white arm chairs. She glares at me as I approach.

"You took your time, girl. This isn't a Capitol fashionista extravaganza, this is the Hunger Games. We don't have time for moping, or…well…we don't have time for a lot of things. Now take a seat. More coffee, either of you?"

It's only then that I notice that Cora has guests, two men who are sitting next to each other on the white couch opposite my mentor. One of them is Jason, as handsome as he was when I met him yesterday before the parade and his smile is just as kind. His companion does not smile, but instead regards me with eyes the color of thunderclouds, a stunning mix of blue and grey that seem to burrow deep into my mind, as if searching for secrets. He's younger than Jason, smaller too, with a well-built frame and nearly-black hair. The corner of his mouth seems to be tilted into what can only be described as a permanent smirk. Just as I did with Jason, I can tell that he's not Capitol, even though his black clothes are of the finest make down to the embroidered silver horse above his heart.

"As you can see, Cecelia, we have visitors," says Cora as I sit down in the only available armchair. I perch on the end, as if prepared to flee, although I can't explain why. "These fine gentlemen have come here with a proposition, one that intrigues me and may in fact work to your benefit."

"A proposition, huh? I'm sure they have." My voice is so cold that Jason's smile drops for a moment and his companion raises one eyebrow slightly. "Why don't you tell me why they're really here? Or which part of me they're really interested in."

"Cecelia Rheys! Watch your tone, girl!"

"No!" All of the fear and terror and anger that welled inside me during training and afterwards seems about to burst forth and my mind is apparently powerless to stop my mouth. "Why should I be polite and smile and say sweet words when we all know the reason you've brought them here!"

"Cecelia!-"

"You sold me for a year in the Red, I should have known it'd be the same here! How much sponsorship money is this 'proposition' going to get me? Do I need to kiss them first or should I spread my legs right here?" I'm standing now, ignoring Cora's gaping mouth and Jason's look of shock. The dark haired man smiles for the first time and this sets me off even more.

"When my name was called from the reaping bowl, I was done with that. Done! I don't belong to anyone, not anymore. My body is mine. Not yours, Miss Shutter, not yours, Jason, not Tanni's, and especially not yours, whoever you are, you arrogant, piggish, evil little-"

"Cecelia Rheys." The dark-haired man's voice cuts through my tirade like a blade. "Look at me."

His eyes catch mine and hold them, and I don't speak as he looks at me for a second that seems to extend indefinitely. Then the smirk on his face seems to grow and he turns to Jason. And kisses him.

I fall down into the armchair, finding no words as Jason wraps an arm around the man's shoulder and pulls him closer into him. I turn to Cora, knowing my mouth is hanging open like a fool. She narrows her eyes at me and gives an exaggerated sigh.

"Cecelia, allow me to introduce Blight Gavin, the Victor of the Fifty Second Hunger Games, one of my dearest friends, and a really very nice man who doesn't deserve to be called the litany of nasty names you unleashed on him. Except for 'arrogant.' That fits."

"What – I –I don't understand," I manage to stutter. "They're not here to-"

"No! No, and they never were. Congratulations Cecelia, for dramatically misreading the situation in such a way as I have never seen before. I'm actually shocked you didn't recognize either of them. The Fifty Second Games were only five years ago. With your memory, I expected you to instantly know them."

"I…I didn't watch much of the Fifty Second Games," I admit in a hushed voice. "Kerry, my sister, had the mumps and she was only a toddler, I stayed with her all day and night and hardly saw the screen when the Games were playing. Were…were those the games where they put a hologram of the Victor's lover at the end to lure him to the feast?"

"Hologram!?" Jason breaks from the continuing embrace and looks at me with raised eyebrows. "Is that what they told-" He's cut off again as Blight pulls him into another deep kiss.

"Yes, Cecelia." Cora's voice is brittle but I can hear the layer of amusement under it. "The Gamemakers… put a hologram of Blight's lover in the Games. I'm not surprised you didn't at least hear about it, but I suppose if you didn't see the event, you may not have known that Blight's lover was in fact another man. The one sitting right here – oh for the love of Snow, will you two either get a room or stop behaving like lovestruck squirrels for two minutes?"

She hurls a throw pillow at Blight, who is now lying on top of Jason. He knocks it away, but Jason takes the opportunity to shove him off the couch. Their laughter mingles with Cora's, and leaves me feeling more ashamed and stupid than I have felt, well, probably ever.

"Mr. Gavin. I am so, so sorry for the things I said. I didn't realize-"

Blight waves a hand as he crawls back to a sitting position. "Never mind it. I've been called far worse actually, and as far as insults go, yours weren't very inventive. I suggest 'moss-wipe' in the future, that's a favorite of my district, and very descriptive of course. I'm personally more offended that you didn't see my truly spectacular victory. Seriously, girl, try to find a recording, it was utterly brilliant, particularly when I-"

Jason clamps a hand over Blight's mouth and gives him another kiss on the forehead as Cora gives a derisive snort and rolls her eyes before turning to me once again.

"So girl, are you quite finished, or do you have some more yelling to do? I think there were some individuals in District 12 who may not have heard everything."

"Cora," I say as I feel my cheeks burn scarlet. "I am so sorry for how I just behaved, and I-"

"No apologies, girl. No time. This is the Hunger Games, as I said. We have business to attend to. Perhaps you should take the time to listen to what Blight has to say. If you don't like it, you have my permission to yell at him, but not before."

I turn and face Blight, who is smirking at me again. "Mr. Gavin. I _am_ sorry. You must think me such a fool."

"Cecelia, nearly every tribute has some sort of breakdown before the Games." Jason's deep voice is more soothing than I deserve. "Blight did, during his session with the Gamemakers in fact."

"I did," says Cora. "After my second day of training I drained three bottles of wine and spent the evening coating this very apartment with vomit. I made sure to get most of it on the white carpet just to see my escort's expression."

"Even the Careers break down," says Blight. "Most of them in private, but once in a while you'll get a spectacularly public meltdown. Those are my favorite."

"The point is, Cecelia," says Jason, leaning forward. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. Not to any of us, at least. We of all people understand how hard, and how terrifying this is for you. It is for every tribute, even those who became Victors. Even Blight, as hard as he might try to admit it."

I look at the handsome man, who, even though I know now will never look at me like so many men do, still makes my heart beat a little bit faster than usual. "Thank you," I whisper, and he rewards me with his bright smile.

"Anyway," says Blight. "Business. Since you didn't see much of my own Games, you're a little behind, so I'll try to explain best I can. During my Games, there were three girls reaped who were all of far above average beauty. The girl from my district, the girl from your own, and the girl from Nine, if I remember correctly. They created an alliance together and played to the cameras during the Games, showing the Capitol audience what they wanted to see, mainly skin, and were showered with sponsor gifts. It carried them through a whole week and they didn't meet another tribute, but nevertheless they all made it to the top twelve. One of them was even in the top four. While it didn't work in the end, it proved to be a rather effective strategy."

"So what happened?" I ask, curious despite the cold chill that runs through me at the way Blight speaks of these three ill-fated girls so casually. "Why didn't it succeed?"

"The girl from Nine ended the alliance too early. She ended up killing herself, the girl from Eight died too, and the only surviving one went insane."

"It sounds terrible," I say. "I'm glad I didn't see it. But I don't understand what this has to do with me."

"I've been talking with Vera, the mentor from my district for the girls, and we agree that even though it didn't work in the past, it may be time for a fresh attempt. You're very beautiful, Cecelia, and while I know that may have been a bit of a curse in the past, it could help you now. No one can deny that in the Hunger Games, beauty can be an exceptional tool, because the Capitol loves beautiful things and you certainly fit the description. But you're not the only one."

"The girl from District 7 is also very lovely," says Cora, and I instantly think of the copper-haired girl from the forest district and I know that my mentor is right. "Her mentor has been getting quite a bit of attention from sponsors due to her looks, just as I have because of you. "

"You want an alliance. You want me to work with this girl from Seven."

"Yes," says Blight.

"No," I say. "I can't do it. I don't want allies. It's too hard having people with you. I don't want to get to know them, because it'll so much harder in…in the end."

Blight nods. "I had the same feeling during my Games. I had one ally, and watching him die was the worst moment of my life. But having him as an ally saved my life. More than once, in fact. The Career Alliance exists for a reason, Cecelia. Not to mention that, if we are official allies, we can combine our sponsorship money for the both of you and get you some real supplies in the beginning, much more than either of you alone. It'll last until one dies or the alliance breaks."

"I…I…" My mind is reeling. I don't want an alliance, I don't want to have to constantly watch my back as I try to sleep next to a person who will have to die for me to live. But as I think back to all eleven Hunger Games I can remember watching, I can only remember one Victor who survived with no allies. Maybe this is my best chance. Maybe this is my only chance.

"How long do I have?" I ask.

"Formal alliances must be registered before the interviews. But the sooner the better."

"Can I have a day?" I ask. "I can tell you after training tomorrow."

Blight smiles. "That's all I can ask. Vera will be pleased. She would have come herself, of course, but she and Cora have never, well, gotten on."

"Figures she would take advantage of our friendship to give her tribute a leg up. The girl from Seven must be completely incompetent."

Blight grins. "It's the Hunger Games. We use the weapons we have. How many times have you taken advantage of our friendship, Cora?" He winks at me and says in a hugely exaggerated whisper, "More times than I can count. It's usually for boysenberry wine. You can only get it in Seven and Cora is addicted to the –" He's cut off by another throw pillow.

"Get out, you rogue, before I get Jason to throw you out so we can have a civilized conversation!"

Jason laughs, scoops his lover up and throws him over his shoulder. "Bedtime, Blighty. Say good night to the nice ladies."

"Good night, nice ladies! Cecelia, I look forward to hearing from you tomorrow."

Once the two men are gone, I turn to Cora.

"Do you trust them?"

"I don't trust anyone, but if I had to, Blight and Jason would be at the top of my list. Jason doesn't have a malevolent bone in his body, and while Blight does, our temperaments are too similar for us to deceive each other. We _are_ friends, Cecelia, and those two men are good ones to have. I didn't tell them about your memory skills, however. I'll leave that to you, if you think they should know. It could help you in the beginning, at least."

"I…I have a headache. I need to lie down. It was a long day. I'm not very hungry."

"Oh no you don't, little lady. I've had a private dinner sent up, it's waiting for us in the dining room. You're going to eat until you can't eat anymore. And while you are, you're going to tell me everything about training today. And I mean everything."

I'm about to groan but Cora's glare is like a hawk's. I swallow my protestations and follow her into the dining room.

* * *

"Your second day of training begins…now."

The tributes break off as Atala finishes her instructions, which were nearly identical to yesterday's. But before I can take four steps I hear her speak again.

"District 8. A word, please."

I ignore the glances of some of the other tributes who are no doubt wondering what I have done to earn the attention of the training master. I wish I could answer them. My mouth is dry as I stand in front of Atala, who looks down at me with hard black eyes.

"Will you be practicing sword fighting again, District 8?"

"I…well…I was planning…maybe."

"If you do, rest assured that the trainer will not be distracting you again."

I look up and meet her eyes, startled by her words, but her face is as impassive as ever. "I saw his behavior towards you yesterday. It was most inappropriate for a trainer. He has been admonished, and it will not be repeated. I believe I am correct in saying that Romano's advances were unwanted?"

"No," I whisper. "I mean, yes, they were unwanted."

"Then he'll know better to repeat his actions. I won't permit any of the trainees to be distracted, and I expect all my trainers to act with the height of professionalism. You may go, District 8."

"Thank you ma'am," I say and turn to leave.

"Oh, and District 8?" Atala leans close to my ear and whispers. "If you _wanted_ the attention, I'd suggest Sabinus at the rock-climbing station. He's young, but he has some very good connections through his grandfather."

She nods at me and walks away, leaving me standing with a shocked look on my face. I unconsciously start moving towards the knot-tying station where Loomer is tying knots happily, but a new voice calls me before I reach my destination.

"District Eight! Wait for me."

The girl from 7 hurries over, her copper hair swinging behind her.

"Rowenna, District Seven. We met yesterday."

"Yes," I say, remembering how this girl had tried three times to engage me in conversation and how three times I ignored her completely. "Sorry about yesterday. I was a little nervous."

The girl waves her hand. She's about two years older than me, and she already looks at me like a teacher addressing a not too bright student. "That was yesterday. We're allies now, so we better get to work."

I narrow my eyes at the word 'allies.' "Did Mr. Gavin talk to you?"

"Mr. Gavin? Oh, Blight? Yes he did. Why do you call him Mr. Gavin? He's only twenty-one. Anyway, he did."

"He didn't tell you…everything, did he?"

"You mean how you yelled at him? Of course he did. Honestly, I think he likes you more because of it. Blight has always been weird like that."

I look at her sharply. "Did you know him? I mean, before you were reaped?"

Rowenna purses her lips. "Everyone knows Blight. Even before he went into the Games." She doesn't say any more, but I can tell there's a story there. I'll have to ask Cora about it when I have time.

"This way," says Rowenna as she takes my arm and pulls me along to the edible plants station.

"I've already done this station," I say, thinking about how Cora interrogated me about exactly what plants were presented, what was poisonous and what was edible, what the leaves looked like, what the consistency was of the moss, until I wanted to throw up my arms and scream.

"So did I, but Blight told me to go back. He says we should look for clues."

"Clues? To what?"

Rowenna smiles. "The arena."

The instructor takes us through the course twice, and then tests us. My memory serves and I pass with a perfect score. Rowenna also does fairly well, but neither of us is able to pick out the clues that the Victor from District 7 seems convinced are there.

"This is pointless," mutters Rowenna. "I've never even seen any of these before today."

I look at her. "What is District Seven like? What sorts of plants grow there?"

"All sorts. It's further north than any of the districts, so we get pine forests, oak, elm, lots of berries, mushrooms, wild onions-"

I cut across her recitation. "Does it rain a lot in Seven?"

"Every week at least, although the summers are hot and winters are brutal. Nothing grows for four months."

I look at the array of plants laid out in front of us. No berries. No fruits . Lots of mosses, strange fleshy plants with spikes, some mushrooms. Very few leafy plants. Nothing that would come from a tree.

"So we know what the arena won't be, because there would probably be some similarities."

"It won't be a forest, or at least not as dense as the ones home," says Rowenna, her eyes lighting up as she sees where I'm going.

"It'll probably be dry. Not much is going to be growing there."

"Oh gods, not another tundra," says Rowenna. We both shiver as we remember the Games from two years ago, where most of the tributes froze to death over the course of two long weeks.

"No. It's too soon, and those Games were a disaster. I'd hazard a guess at hot and dry. Not a desert, or there would be no plants at all."

"Blight was wrong, Cecelia. You're more than just a pretty face." Rowenna is looking at me with a newfound respect, and I'm not sure whether to be insulted or flattered. Then her face twists and she looks over my shoulder. "Something you need, Twelve?"

The girl from Twelve is standing behind us, not looking at us but clearly listening in. "No," she says, a stubborn look on her face.

"Then get lost," Rowenna snarls.

"It's not your station. I can work with plants same as anyone."

"C'mon Cecelia. Let's review fire-building."

Rowenna marches off and I follow. We begin using tinder, cloth and flint to create separate fires. I'm not surprised when the girl from 12 moves over a short time later and begins to build her own fire. Rowenna scowls but she doesn't say anything.

We pass the morning at the survival stations, reviewing edible insects, shelter building, camouflage, and injury treatment. We end the morning with rock climbing. Remembering what Atala said, I strip off my tunic and start climbing in just my breastband. Rowenna looks at me in confusion until she sees the eyes of the trainer on my body and she does the same. I hate the feel of his eyes, and I know a couple of other trainers and tributes are doing the same, but at least they're more professional than Tanni. It doesn't matter anyway. I have to do this. For Da.

The bell rings for lunch just as we make it to the bottom. Sabinus hands us two steamed towels to wipe off the sweat. I take mine with a smile and a wink, and he grins at me, his eyes fixed on my chest.

We take lunch in the canteen just off the gymnasium. The six Careers all sit together, talking and laughing in hushed tones. Most of the other tributes sit alone, except for Loomer who joins the pair from 5. Rowenna sneers when she sees her district partner take the table closest to the Careers, sitting on the bench so he half faces them. They totally ignore him.

After filling our plates with ham, eggs and potato salad, Rowenna takes a seat at the table in the far corner. I join her. It's not long before the girl from 12 walks up, plate in hand.

"Is there room for me to sit here?"

Rowenna glances at the large table. "We're kind of full up, I'm afraid." It's instantly clear that this conversation isn't about lunch.

The girl scowls. "I think you might find some benefits to having me around."

"Really," says my ally, raising her eyebrow. "Like what?"

The girl rolls her eyes "Well I can't show you at the table, can I? I'll show you after lunch."

Rowenna glances at me, making it clear that it's my choice.

"You can sit with us today," I say. "After that, we'll see."

The girl nods and takes a seat beside me. She introduces herself as Lilac and asks us to call her Lil. We give her our names and lunch stretches into a long, awkward silence as we eat until Lil asks about our families. We launch into the discussion with enthusiasm, sensing a safe topic that doesn't have anything to do with the Hunger Games. Lil is the daughter of a coal miner and the mayor's housekeeper and has an older brother who just survived his last reaping. At fourteen, she's the youngest tribute in this year's Games. Rowenna is the second youngest of seven children, all of them forest workers. She's one of those unfortunates who took out one tesserae too many, with sixty slips in this year's reaping bowl.

I in turn tell them about my sister, father, and brother, and both girls smile when I talk about my little nephew. Talk then turns to our mentors. Rowenna and Lil are fascinated by Cora, who is a legend even in the other districts, and while I ask Rowenna a couple questions about Blight, she dodges them and instead tells us about how she wishes she had Connor as a mentor instead of Vera. Lil entertains us with the latest of Haymitch Abernathy's antics, but even as I laugh I feel sorry for her. It doesn't sound like she has a mentor who even cares about his tribute's life.

When the bell rings, the tributes head back out into the gymnasium. The Careers head to the weapons stations, and I head that way since Cora instructed me to focus on swords after lunch. Rowenna holds me back.

"Okay Twelve, let's see what you can do."

Lil heads over to the knot-tying station of all places. There are two other tributes there, the boy from 3 who's concentrating on making a net, and the tall, dark girl from 11, who scowls at us as we approach but doesn't speak.

"Knot tying? What are you going to do Twelve, tie our bootlaces to death?"

Rowenna's derision disappears when Lil waves the instructor away and proceeds to make six snares in under fifteen minutes and then demonstrates how they can be used to trap, snag, or maim animals or unlucky tributes. Her favorite is clearly a contraption she builds that sends a sharpened spike of wood soaring through the air.

"Where did you learn all this?" I ask, feeling my respect for the small girl from the coal-mining district rise.

"From my brother. And my father. There's a forest in Twelve where we…where we practice."

I glance at Rowenna, knowing there's more behind what the girl didn't say than what she did.

"So? Can I join your alliance?"

Rowenna looks at me, and I nod, deferring to her.

"That's up to our mentors. I don't think they'll go for a formal alliance. But you can sit with us at lunch tomorrow."

"I suppose that's better than nothing," says Lil, brushing her short-cropped bobbed hair away from her face. "Honestly, it's more than I hoped for when I was reaped. Haymitch is worse than useless."

We leave the snares behind and separate for weapons training. Lil heads towards knife fighting. Knives are the easiest weapon to get a hold of in the arena, and most tributes work at the station at least once. Rowenna heads to axes, naturally, and I catch a glimpse of her engaging the trainer with two hatchets in hand. It's enough to see that she can handle her weapons. I in turn head to sword fighting. I wait until one of the instructors is free until the girl from 1 stumbles off to wipe herself down and I step into the ring.

Tanni grins at me. "Ready for another round, Celia?"

I don't answer and he bows his head in a conciliatory gesture.

"I apologize about yesterday. I was very inappropriate. I know you need to concentrate. It won't happen again."

I nod and move forward to begin the basic pattern dance he taught me yesterday. I think I'm doing well, but Tanni suddenly moves blindingly fast and I find myself pressed against him as our swords lock.

"The tributes from One are cousins."

I look at him in surprise as we break apart, not sure if I heard correctly. Tanni's face is blank and we continue the pattern dance. It only takes a minute before he locks us together again.

"The girl from Two is a brilliant swordswoman, but she can't use ranged weapons."

This continues for some time. Each time Tanni locks us together, I learn something more about my opponents. Luckie from 7 is vastly overconfident. Gill from 4 leaves his left side unprotected when he throws spears.

The next time it's me who imitates Tanni's movement and, to my surprise, I manage the lock.

"What's the boy from Two's weapon?"

We continue the dance until he gets close again. "No one knows. If you see him in the arena, run."

I nod, but before I can think of more questions I hear a voice behind me.

"Are you two going to keep dancing, or are you going to let someone try a real fight?"

The girl from 4 is standing at the outside of the ring, glaring at me with more venom than I understand.

"In a moment, Andromache," says Tanni, but I shake my head.

"I'm done. He's all yours, Four. Thanks Tanni, for…well…thanks."

The girl from 4 brushes past me as I walk out, and the stress of the day hits me as I spin around to face her.

"Do you have a problem with me, District Four, or are there no such things as manners on fishing boats?"

The girl approaches me. It registers that I have to look up to meet her eyes even though we're both fifteen. "I know your type, District Eight. Don't think that your pretty face is going to help you in the arena, even if you do bend over for every tribute who will have you."

I gasp and remember just in time that I'm not allowed to engage her despite how much I want to slap her sneering face. I spin around and head to the ax station just as Rowenna and Lil join me.

"Cecelia? Is everything alright? What was that about?"

"It was…it was nothing. Don't worry about it. District Four just takes exception to my face. Nothing new."

"Well, I certainly don't," says a voice behind me. "As I told you before, District Eight, I know how to appreciate a woman. Even whores."

"Get lost, Luckie," snarls Rowenna as she faces her district partner, who's standing near us, smirking. "And don't call Cecelia a whore."

"Why? That's what she is. Before she came here she worked in Cora Shutter's brothel."

Rowenna looks at me as I feel my face flush. "That's a lie, Luckie. A dirty lie."

"Sorry tree-bitch, but it's true. I heard the elf talking to Jason about it this morning."

"Don't you call Blight that!" Rowenna is shouting now. I can feel Lil behind me, probably trying to use my greater height to hide herself from the confrontation.

"He's an elf. She's a whore. And you're a bitch. And when I win the Games, I'll make sure I mention all of you in my victory speech."

Rowenna balls her fists and looks ready to launch herself at Luckie. Then I feel something pressed into my palm as Lil brushes up behind me. I hold off Rowenna with a look and approach Luckie.

"It's all right, Seven. He's right. I am a whore." I wrap an arm around Luckie's waist. He looks down at me in shock and ill-concealed desire. "But even a whore has her price. I'm sure he'll learn what mine is if he tries."

Luckie's face blanches as he feels the knife Lil handed me pressed against his ribs.

"Find me in the arena, if you're willing to pay the price, Luckie," I whisper in his ear.

"I will. And when I'm done, I'll carve you a new hole with that knife and fuck you there too, you District Eight bitch."

The bell rings, signaling the end of training. I break away from my allies, headed towards the lift. I ignore Rowenna calling behind me, making it to the lift before anyone else. The girl from 7 slips in before the door closes. Thankfully, she doesn't speak or look at me. Until the door opens to the seventh floor and she turns to me.

"I don't care. About what Luckie said. You're a good ally, Cecelia." She walks out before I can answer.

The doors slide open to the eighth floor a moment later. I walk into the sitting room where Cora is sitting, drinking a coffee and consulting a small handheld computer that I can see is displaying the current odds.

"I'll do it," I say. Cora looks up. "Tell Blight that Rowenna has her ally. I'll do it."

Cora doesn't say anything, just looks from my face to my hand. I look down and see that I am still gripping the knife from the gymnasium. I hurl it from me and to my shock it sticks in the wall.

Cora smiles.

* * *

"Stop pacing, girl! You're making me nervous."

I sit down on the white couch, but as soon as I do, Cora gets up and starts pacing herself.

"Remind me again what you did at your session."

I take a deep breath and begin reciting the stations that I went to during my private session with the Gamemakers earlier today. "I got a perfect score in edible plants. Built a fire. Built a shelter. Climbed to the top of the wall. And swordfighting with Tanni. I think he tried to make me look better than I was, but I don't think the Gamemakers were very impressed.

"The Gamemakers are never impressed. Or if they are, they don't show it. Well, it's more than I could have asked. With luck you'll get higher than a four and do better than twenty-six of my past thirty-one tributes."

We're all sitting together in the sitting room, now that the training is over and we've all had our private demonstrations for the Gamemakers. I'm glad it's over. Performing for an audience is a terror all in itself, but at least I didn't imitate Rowenna and walk into the gymnasium visibly shaking. I think I did as well as I could. I knew I couldn't hold anything back, not if I want sponsors to think I'm more than just a pretty face.

The television flickers on and we all fall silent immediately. Cora comes up behind me and squeezes my shoulders as Antonia and Antonius begin with their usual litany of jokes and amusing training anecdotes from years past. Woof sits with Loomer, stone-faced. Loomer's stylist and Agrippina are on the other couch. Fortunately, Hector has chosen not to make an appearance.

The boy from 1 is first, scoring an 8. His cousin gets a ten. I shiver as I see the high numbers flash besides their faces, feeling the malice from even their digital glares.

"The Careers are always high," whispers Cora. "Remember that at least five of them will die anyway."

The boy from 2 gets an eleven.

The room is filled with a shock that carries past even the girl from 2, who gets a ten, and the low scores of the tributes from 3.

"He's hiding something," I whisper. There have only been six scores of eleven given in the history of the Hunger Games. What could the unassuming boy from 2 done to impress the Gamemakers that much?

The boy and girl from 4 get a nine and a seven, lower than I expected but still higher than I hope for. I barely notice 5 and 6 until Luckie's face flashes on screen. I can't help but smirk as I see that for all his confidence he's only managed a five. Rowenna gets a seven, confirming in my mind that she's even better with axes than she let her allies see. And the moment arrives.

Loomer gets a two, and Woof's face hardens, but he doesn't say anything. And then my face comes up. And the number six flashes beside it.

Cora squeezes my shoulders. "Six. Good. Very good. High enough to let the sponsors know you have potential. But not high enough to put a target on your back."

My companions start talking amongst themselves, ignoring the rest of the scores, which are low anyway. Until the girl from 11 appears and the number eight appears beside her face.

"What did she do? Where was she in the gymnasium? What stations?" Cora snaps.

"Snares. Plants. Fire. No weapons at all."

"Another unknown. Just what we need. Hopefully someone with sense will take her down at the Cornucopia."

The scores finish with as Lil's face disappears along with the number four beside it. The room subsides into silence.

"Well, that's it," says Cora. "The easy part is done."

I don't answer, but a cold bead of fear forms in my stomach at her words. Three days and I'm in the arena. Three days. But the Games start now.

**OMG an update! It's like a miracle. Plus this is the longest chapter I have ever written, so don't think I never do anything for you people.**

**Thanks again for your continued support and reviews. They mean more to me than I can say, actually. It's such a privilege to know that people are following and supporting my work. And yes, this is me fishing for reviews. So sue me. We all do it. Don't raise your eyebrows like that.**

**Thanks to last update's reviewers: MiraoftheBitterSea, randomtastic7, Clove'sAllies, mintjellyfish, iWolfy, Anla'shok, Oxenstierna D. Yuki-Rin, and Missy01. Always appreciated!**


	10. Chapter 10

Cora:

Aurelius and Simona Silvertree have hosted the Interview Night Gala at their home since before my own Games. Aurelius' father was a close advisor to President Lucius long before Snow took office and he began the tradition before the very first Hunger Games, even though back then there were no interviews, or training, or sponsors. There are hundreds of parties being hosted all over the city, but this is _the _event to be seen at in the Capitol tonight. Despite my contempt for the necessary evil of dealing with sponsors, and the general loathing most Victors have for the Games, I can't help but feel a bit of smugness as I weave my way through the gardens where the guests are mingling knowing that thousands of Capitolians would give half of what they owned to be here.

Hey, I won the Hunger Games. I'm allowed to enjoy what small perks there are.

However, business calls and I drift over to a group of Capitolians standing far enough from the fountains so that they don't get sprayed but close enough to watch the doors from the foyer to see who's coming and going. They're glittering with jewels and their clothes are so fine they must have been made in Warehouse 001 back in Fog Town, which crafts fabric only for the very richest of the Capitol citizens and the Hunger Games stylists. I'm dressed in a silver mesh evening gown thick enough to preserve my modesty but clinging enough to show that my figure hasn't changed much from when I was a seventeen year old tribute girl. Opals glitter at my neck, ears and wrists. I'm suddenly stuck with gratitude that Madame Lucia keeps an interest in her tributes long after they win the Games. There's one thing I've found when treating with the Capitolians. They gravitate towards surfaces. If you look like one of them, you'll almost be treated like one of them.

"Urgulana," I say as I sidle up to a woman attired in a shocking kaleidoscope of blues and oranges.

"Cora Shutter! What a surprise!" Urgulana grasps my hand and pulls me towards her. I kiss her on her bony cheek, shuddering inwardly at how decades of cosmetic surgery has given her skin the consistency of sun-baked clay.

"Everyone, you've met Cora, haven't you? The Victor of the very first Quarter Quell, of course. Of course you have. And of course Cora is one of my dearest friends. Cora, you simply have to go shopping with me while you're here, there's this new boutique near President Lucius Memorial Park, it's simply _divine_-"

I feel my mouth curl at the mention of that accursed park but I smooth my features into a smile and wait as Urgulana introduces me to every companion in her considerable entourage. While I'm grateful that even among the most prestigious Capitolians knowing a Victor personally is something to attain to, my impatience and boredom at being treated like a fashion accessory threatens my carefully maintained Capitol-smile. Especially by someone who speaks like a giddy schoolgirl rather than a seventy-nine year old woman.

I feel eyes on me and look beyond the Minister of Tesserae, whose eyes have yet to leave my chest, to where Blight is standing in his own group, Jason at his side. He smiles at me, his eyes twinkling, and then draws a hand over his face so that he suddenly appears stone-faced. I burst out laughing, but fortunately the Minister thinks I'm amused by whatever he's saying.

"Opals, Cora?" I look over my shoulders to where Larissa, the young twit from the train station, is standing with a glass of champagne and a smirk on her face. "Haven't you heard? Pearls are in this year. Opals have been out since the 40th Games. District Four was simply _radiant _at the parade this year. And when Andromache wears the crown everyone will remember who was wearing pearls before the gong sounded."

I smile at her and rake my eyes over the….thing she has the audacity to call a dress. "Larissa, darling, Madame Lucia dressed me in opals when I wore that crown myself. Some of us prefer class to fads. And if pearls are in, I would have thought you could've afforded a few more. Your back fat is showing ,my dear."

"So is your desperation," says Larissa, not missing a beat. "This is what, the thirty-second year you've worn opals? And how many District 8 girls have worn them at the Victory Ceremony since you?"

I take a step closer, wondering how our companions don't feel a chill in the air. "I'll tell you what, darling. The day Cecelia still stands in the arena as Andromache is lifted out by hovercraft, I'll switch pearls, and you can wear opals. Unless you're not confident in your chosen tribute?"

I've trapped her and she knows it. Her lip curls for a moment before she smiles and says, "Of course, Cora. How fun! I do love the Games, don't you all?"

The shallow, vain people around us all tinker their assent. I purse my lips together until the smile comes.

"I do hope the girls this year are up to the challenge," says Urgulana. "I sponsored Districts Two and Six last year. Six! What was I thinking? Sure, she looked strong enough, but then that horrid boy from Nine got a hold of an ax from somewhere at the Cornucopia and…well…I couldn't even show my face at the Victory Ceremony. Never again.

I glide over to Urgulana as her companions make sympathetic noises. "It must have been so dreadful for you, Urgulana. Just dreadful. But there's good news. I have more confidence in my tribute this year than I ever have. Cecelia is going to win the crown. I have every confidence. But of course, it's only possible with your help, dear friend."

"Well…I don't know." The old woman is carefully avoided my eyes. "She's pretty enough, but she only scored a six, Cora. And I was also looking at Andromache…" Her hands go up to touch the blue pearl choker at her neck.

"Well, of course, Cecelia doesn't have certain advantages that some of the other districts may have. But that doesn't mean she doesn't have surprises up her sleeve."

"What, is she going to flash her tits for the cameras? If you read the papers today, it seems like quite a possibility."

I ignore Larissa. "I know it's asking quite a big favor, my dear Urgulana. But we've been friends for so long. I've always known I can count on you. And since Cecelia is my tribute, sponsoring her is, in a way, like sponsoring me again."

I have her now, and we all know it. Urgulana cannot possibly deny Cecelia sponsorship unless she wants all her friends to know that we're not as close of friends as she's been boasting. The realization fills her eyes and her smile becomes rather fixed.

"Well, it is against my better judgment. But that's what friends are for. Of course I'll donate to Cecelia's funds as well as Andromache's, Cora. A token of our friendship!"

"Here's to true friends!" I say in a carrying voice as I raise my glass of champagne and ignore the vomiting gestures Blight is making from across the garden. We drink, studiously avoiding each other's eyes. Inwardly, I'm crowing with delight, knowing that a token of Urgulana's friendship is the equal to the rest of the sponsor donations I've found combined.

That glass is followed by three more after finally breaking myself free of that repulsive woman and her entourage. I wander through the garden, exchanging polite words and laughter with ministers, musical performers, officials, Gamemakers, and the wealthy and elite of Panem. Their jarring accents grate on my ears, their oozing words make me feel filthy, but I carry on. I have a job to do. The only people I have worthwhile conversations with are the other Victors. Well, some of them. Mitt is passed out behind a statue. I motion for some Avoxes to carry him out. Jade is gliding through the party like she owns the place. I nod at her as she passes, a gesture she doesn't return. I finally join a group with BeeTee and Nolan, and enjoy some worthwhile conversation until I feel a tap on my shoulder.

An Avox is standing behind me, dressed in the traditional red and bowing slightly to me. I'm about to ask him what he wants until he raises his head and I see that it's Oenimus.

"What is it?" I ask in a whisper. Nolan is looking at us curiously and I turn my back so he can't hear my words. "Is it home? Della?"

Oenimus simply bows and presses a scrap of paper into my hand before disappearing into the crowd. I look down at the Capitol tabloid in my hand, one of the many rags that speculate on celebrity gossip, the betting odds for the Games, and ludicrous stories about the barbarity of the districts. I glance at the headline, the picture underneath. And my heart stops.

A clearly altered picture of Cecelia is looking up at me. She's dressed in some slinky negligee that I'm sure she's never even seen in her life and standing in a doorway, her hand raised in a 'come hither' gesture.

"_CECELIA RHEYS: LADY OF THE NIGHT IS GOING FOR THE CROWN!"_

I rip open the paper and scan the article furiously. Between the exclusive interview with me that I never gave and more altered pictures, they manage to get one fact correct. That Cecelia is a whore back in District 8, and that she works for me.

I stand frozen for a moment. Something that feels like ice is flowing through my veins. The only thought I can process is one of complete disbelief. _How did they find out?_

There's a commotion near the front of the garden as the double doors to the house open. Chills that have nothing to do with the newspaper in my hand ripple my skin as Ahenobarbus steps through and down the steps. At seventy five he's still straight backed and tall, his black eyes filled with something that can only be described as a complete lack of humanity even after fifty-seven years. The crowd breaks into polite applause as the Victor of the First Hunger Games walks down the steps to the garden, his fellow District 2 Victors smirking behind him. I take the opportunity to slip through the crowd and back into the house.

My heels click across the foyer as I try to keep myself from breaking into an outright run. They're joined almost immediately by another. I look to side and see Blight keeping pace with me. He raises his eyebrow at me but I don't answer his unasked question. A servant holds the front door open for us and we descend the massive marble staircase to where the cars and carriages are waiting. Oenimus is waiting with a black limo. He helps me inside as Blight follows.

"The Remake Center," I tell the driver. Blight starts to speak as the car speeds off but I shake my head and we pass the rest of the trip in silence.

My fury builds as I stalk across the foyer of the Remake Center and pound the lift button until it arrives. We soar up to the eighth floor and I take deep breaths, reminding myself that the last thing Cecelia needs right now is an emotionally compromised mentor and that everything will seem better with coffee.

I like to think that my will is iron, that my emotions are always completely under control, but all armor has a weak link, and apparently mine goes by the name of Hector.

"_WHAT IS SHE WEARING, YOU INCOMPETENT, LUNATIC EUNUCH?!" _I shriek as I walk through the door.

Cecelia's insipid prep team scatters with squeals and admonishments that would almost be humorous if I weren't in such a rage. Hector looks down his overlarge snout at me in that way so many Capitolians have, but I can't help but notice that his left hand starts twitching when he sees me approach. And Cecelia, poor Cecelia stands in front of the mirror in a scarlet something that cannot possibly be called a dress. I could fit the entirety of her outfit in my coffee mug and still have room for cream and sugar.

"Hello Cecelia," says Blight. "You might want to let your stylist know that your ovaries are showing."

"_Not now, Blight_," I hiss, and my friend looks embarrassed for what I'm certain is the first time in his life.

"What is this?" I ask as I stalk closer and the vile little stylist takes a step back. "This is my tribute. Not a doll for you to dress up in your twisted sexual fantasies. What about what we talked about? What about her angle?"

Cecelia and I spent the entirety of yesterday together. I took over Agrippina's traditional role, teaching her to walk properly in heels, sit straight, carry herself with poise, and smile properly. We then focused on what angle she would be going for in the interviews. I decided that she would be modest, clever, affable and, above all, mysterious. There's nothing mysterious about what Hector has dressed her in. Not even District 1 is this crass, and the sexy angle is usually their exclusive property.

"Her _angle_ is what the city has chosen for her. I am merely accentuating Cecelia's image." Hector's lower lip juts out in a pout. "I thought you would be pleased."

"Pleased? That she looks like some Capitol tramp in Samson's? When did I ever say that was her image? I told you yesterday-"

"I'm not yours to command, district woman. And when you tell me one thing and the newspapers something else, what am I supposed to do? I am an artiste, not a mind reader!"

"Miss Shutter? What is he talking-"

"Be quiet Cecelia. The adults are talking." I snap.

Cecelia glowers in a way I didn't think possible, and I can't help but smile inwardly at the thought that if she looks at the other tributes this way on the starting podiums she might actually intimidate them.

"I'm a tribute. Not a child. And don't talk about me like I'm not here. Now what is going on?"

I take a deep breath. "I'm sorry Cecelia. I'll explain. Just give me one moment."

I turn to her stylist, who is avoiding my eyes. "Fix her."

He gapes at me, waving his arms furiously. "The interviews start in an hour! You expect me to snap my fingers and make a dress appear out of thin air? She's going in this whether you like it or not!"

I grit my teeth. "Fix her. Now."

Hector's eyes get a cold, flinty look. "I am through with this. I am an artiste, not a servant of a couple of district strumpets who are no better than they ought to be. You want her in something else? You find something suitable. And I in turn will go straight to Vitellius Veridian of the National Gallery, who in turn will go to President Snow. So if that's what you want, by all means, redress her. But I'm done here. Make sure she's downstairs on time."

And with that, Hector swoops out of the room, followed by the three women who give me scorching glances as they leave.

"You know, Miss Shutter, I can't help but feel as though I'll have a better chance if you don't make enemies out of everyone who's supposed to be helping me."

This startles a laugh from me, although I'm not sure what's funny, the joke or the fact that Cecelia has actually summoned the courage to tease me.

"Cora, what is going on?" asks Blight. "You stormed out of the gala looking like the gods were at your heels, and now Cecelia is dressed like, well, like a scarlet woman. In scarlet, no less."

I toss him the newspaper. Blight catches it deftly and frowns at the headline. He rips the paper open and scans the article.

"Oh Starbucks above," he mutters. "Is there anything they won't do for a story?"

"It's about me, isn't it?" asks Cecelia.

"No," Blight and I say simultaneously, which only seems to confirm her suspicions.

She stands and takes the paper out of Blight's hands. He gives me an apologetic glance as Cecelia's eyes widen, first in shock, then in horror.

"No. No. How did they find out?" Her eyes fill with tears. "Not now. Not this. How could they? How could you? Cora, how could you tell them about this?!"

"Don't cry, Cecelia, you'll ruin your make up and your prep team has left. And I didn't tell anyone. You know that."

"You told _him!_" she cries with a black look at Blight, who raises his hands.

"I told no one but Jason, and Jason keeps my secrets."

"Then who?" I snap at Blight. "Who? If none of us, it must have been-"

"Luckie." Cecelia sinks down onto the chair. "It was Luckie. He knew. He knew at training."

"Connor's tribute? The boy from Seven? Why would he do this? What would he gain from it?"

"Sponsorship money," says Blight.

"And revenge. I…I sort of threatened him with a knife. He tried to touch me!" she exclaims at our upturned eyebrows. "Oh gods. It's my fault."

"No. It's not," says Blight as his face blackens. "Excuse me for a moment."

He turns and marches out of the room. When I look back, Cecelia has sunk down onto one of the white leather chairs.

"They know. They're all going to know," she whispers, tears dripping down her face. Somehow I know she's not talking about her fellow tributes.

"Don't be silly. How could they know?" I lie as I sit down beside her.

"They have to. If it's in the paper, it'll be on the television too. In the programmes we all have to watch. Ceasar is going to ask me about it. And if they send me out in this dress…Oh, Cora. I tried so hard. I tried so hard!"

I awkwardly place a hand on her arm. I'm no good at this sort of thing. Manipulating people for sponsorship money is one thing, being motherly is totally different, but for some odd reason I feel I have to try, more so than any of the other thirty one girls I've mentored.

"Cecelia, Capitol gossip means nothing in the districts. You know that. Granted, there will always be some people who know what you did in the Red. You were quite popular after all. But if you're talking about your family, they won't hear. And if they do, they won't believe it. And if they do believe it, they won't care. They just want you home."

"Don't make me go out there, Cora. Don't make me go out there in this dress. Don't let them look at me. I don't want them to look at me anymore."

"It seems we have no choice my dear. Remember why you're doing this. Your family is watching. So make them proud." I run my fingers through her hair. "What were their names again?"

"Carl, Kerry, Paylor, Crinoline. Della. And my Da. I'm doing this for my Da."

"Mmhmm. What about your Da, dear?"

"He's sick. He's dying. I'm fighting for his life. The Victor's purse will be enough to buy him the medicine he needs. It has to be."

I jerk my hand away, horrified. "Why didn't you tell me this?"

"I was going to say it in the interview. I didn't want anyone to know. It was going to be a surprise."

"Cecelia Rheys, you keep your mouth shut about this. I forbid you to mention anything of the sort!"

She looks at me, her dark eyes wide. "Miss Shutter, I have to-"

"You don't have to do anything! You _have_ to listen to what I say. And my name is Cora!"

"He is my father! I have to tell him that I'm fighting for him. I have to give him hope!"

"_I forbid it!_"

"Just because you didn't love your father doesn't mean you have to be jealous of mine!"

I slap her.

She slams her fists against my chest and screams.

We glare at each other for a long time.

"Go sit by the mirror. I need to fix your make up."

"Yes, Miss Shutter," she mutters.

Once she's seated, I turn to the massive make-up kit that's still opened on the table next to the mirror. I take linen cloth, wet it in the tub, and begin dabbing off the tear streaks from my tributes face. After a minute of her opening and closing her mouth she finally gets a word out.

"Miss Shutter, I-"

"Shut up." She does.

Long minutes pass until her face is clear. I wish I could send out on stage like this. She's beautiful, more beautiful without the lights and the makeup and the glitter. I wish I could show the audience the real Cecelia, not the tribute from District 8, not the lovely and vulnerable pleasure woman from the slums, not the fierce and determined woman with a will and fortitude that continues to astonish me. I want them to see the girl, the girl I have only gotten glimpses of, which convince me that Cecelia is like no other tribute I have ever mentored.

But I can't. Because we're playing the Game. Always, we are playing the Game. And so I begin applying blush.

"My father was from District 8 of course, but he worked in the Justice Building his whole life. He was educated, and very gifted with sums and accounts. So they put him in charge of the tax, the ones that people who don't work in the factories have to pay. He kept track of how much was owed, when it needed to be paid. And he had enforcers for people who wouldn't, or couldn't, pay what was due.

"As it often happens with people who are given a bit of power over those around them, the position went to my father's head. He became obsessed with his status, obsessed with being as Capitol-like as possible. Considering the only Capitol contact we had were the poor officials who were stuck in District Eight due to their political disfavor, it was a poor representation, but it didn't matter. And it didn't help when my mother left him for one of those Capitolians. He began overcharging the district residents, grievously overcharging the tax, until he was the most hated man in the district."

Cecelia is silent and motionless, whether caught up in my story or because I'm applying her eyeliner I can't say. But I'm grateful. This prep work is harder than I thought.

"One night, he went to one of the tailors, the ones that make and alter suits and dresses for people in the Clear. The tailor was behind in his tax. He couldn't pay any more. He refused to pay any more. My father didn't have his enforcers with him. He didn't think he'd need them with a tailor. So he pulled out a stun gun, like the ones the Peacekeepers use when they don't mean to kill. He tried to use it on the tailor. He had never fired it before. He missed. He hit the man's daughter instead."

My hand wavers, just for a moment, and I pause so I don't streak the eyeliner. Cecelia could be a statue.

"She fell, and hit her head on the table. The healers did all they could, but the girl died the next day."

"What…" Cecelia swallows and continues. "What happened to your father?"

"Nothing. The man refused to pay his tax. The Capitol held him to blame. My father was never charged or punished for what he did that night. He came home, got drunk, and was at the office the next day.

"And then, a month later, the Quarter Quell was announced. 'To remind the districts that they were being punished because of their own choice to engage in violence, the tributes would be selected by a vote cast by every citizen of reaping age or older.' And three months after that, well, it was no shock whose name came out of the bowl. It was myself and an eighteen year old who had raped a child. The district got their revenge. They took my father's daughter from him. He didn't even come to say good-bye in the Justice Building."

"Cora…gods, I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

"I'm sure you've heard some of it," I say as I begin applying golden and scarlet glitter to her face and arms.

"No one talks about the Quell. The first one, I mean. All I heard was that your father didn't live with you in the Victor's Village after you won."

"And they were right," I say as I apply more glitter.

"Did…did you ever see him again?"

"Yes. Once. He showed up at my door three years later. He was sick, he said. He needed medicine. He was desperate. He couldn't afford the pills that would heal him.

"I closed the door in his face. He died two weeks later."

Cecelia is quiet for a long time.

"I'm sorry for what I said," she says.

"I'm sorry for hitting you. It was not professional, and you did not deserve it."

"And that's why you don't want me to talk about my father's sickness?"

I put down the make-up and kneel down in front of her. "Cecelia, you can't talk about your father because you have no idea what the Capitol would do with that information. I'm sure people who matter already know, but the general public doesn't and that's what's important. The Games are entertainment, and tributes who are fighting for someone else's life are always more exciting. They're pushed harder. They face more obstacles. The Gamemakers will try to see just how far you'll go to save your father's life, and the crowds will cheer you on. Yes, you might get a few more sponsors, but when you've got fire and flood on one side, the Careers tracking you on another, and mutts snarling above, there will be nothing I could send to save you. I've seen it happen.

"And if you win, you will never be at peace. The Capitol won't just let you waltz into an apothecary and buy what your father needs. You will have to do more things, terrible things, for that medicine.

"Keep it a secret, Cecelia. Let your father carry you through the arena, but do not, in any circumstances, let anyone else know about the hope you're carrying. Hope is dangerous. They will extinguish it where they find it. Do not let them find it. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Miss Shutter."

"My name is-"

"Yes, Cora."

"Good. I think you're set then. You look beautiful."

And she does. The dress is horrendous, of course, but Cecelia fills it out well. Her hair tumbles in glittered curls down her back, her makeup is set (and much better than it was, in my modest opinion) and as she stands I can still see her strength in the way she carries herself. Now she just needs to get through the interview.

I kiss the top of her head. "You'll be fine. You're going to be fantastic. The Capitol loves pretty things, and they'll love you, dear. Just remember what we talked about. Just because you look like District One doesn't mean you should act like them."

"Cora, what if Caesar asks me about the Red? What do I say?"

I start to answer, but Agrippina picks this moment to burst in.

"The interviews are in twenty minutes! Get out of there and downstairs! Now, now, now!"

She latches her fingers around Cecelia's wrist and physically pulls her from the room. Cecelia gives me one final glance before she's gone, and I'm out of words of encouragement to say. But there is one more thing I can do to help her. I just need to make one call.

I take out my personal phone and type in a number. I wait until the jarring Capitol accent is ringing in my ear, asking my name and business.

"Cora Shutter. I need to speak to Mr. Flickerman. Tell him it's urgent."

I only have to wait two minutes until I hear the familiar voice on the other end, grateful once again for the prestige that comes with being the Victor of a Quarter Quell.

"Caesar, it's so good to speak with you! No, I won't take up much of your time, I know the interviews are about to start. Yes, I did see your new hair, amazing color choice, just amazing. Listen, Caesar, you remember how we were at that party together at President Lucius Memorial Park? And I made certain that your niece got to play me in the re-enactment? Yes, of course you do. Oh yes, she was marvelous. Well, afterwards you told me that you owed me a favor. I hate to do this now, but darling, I'm cashing in."

* * *

Caesar Flickerman bounds up onto the stage to thunderous applause He's wearing his twinkling suit and his hair is dyed a bright cerulean that I must say actually does look pleasant for once. I clap politely, glancing at my fellow mentors to see their reactions. Haymitch is, as usual, slumped down in his seat. Chaff isn't doing much better, but at least he has Seeder beside him to keep him slightly presentable. Nolan is crossing his arms, Connor leans forward intently, Mitt giggles and waves his hands in the air. Woof is totally expressionless beside me, even as the camera swoops past us. I blow it a kiss as I do every year.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome, welcome! Are you all ready for the start of the Fifty Seventh Annual Hunger Games?" Cheers ring around us at Caesar's words. The Master of Ceremonies bounds across the stage, making jokes, energizing the crowd, shouting out names of the tributes and basking in the applause each one gets.

"They're determined! They're deadly! They're clever! They're mysterious! They're beautiful! They're ready! But are you? Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready? Are you ready to meet this year's fantastic group of young tributes?"

The cheering reaches a fever pitch, and I find myself with a headache. Just get on with it, you stupid man.

"And here they are! Mink, Zinfandel, Pomponia, Ferrus, Satellia, Hidef, Andromache, Gillard, Electra, Soren, Violet, Track, Rowenna, Aspen, Cecelia, Loomer, Sesamy, Wheaton, Jonni, Ramon, Abundance, Wren, Lilac, and Shade!"

The tributes walk out in a line to their seats. All of them have clearly been through hours of remake, and some of them look as traumatized by that ordeal as they are by the one that's still coming. The Careers walk out with confidence, smiling at the crowd and waving. Only a few of the other tributes follow suit, and I'm exceedingly pleased that Cecelia is one. She doesn't look down at her dress once, she doesn't trip over her monstrously high heels, she just blows a kiss to the crowd and sits with everyone else, tucking her legs beneath her and folding her hands on her lap. I'm proud already. The walk is always the hardest.

Caesar throws out a few more jokes, but then the interviews start in earnest. The first to come up is Mink, dressed in the white fur that is her namesake. The Capitol has been eager for this interview and the one that follows it. Everyone knows about the family rivalry now between the cousins from District 1, and both tributes play their parts well, scorning the other and trying to convince Caesar that they're the one that will be wearing the crown in the end. Caesar is in his element and as Zin returns to his seat the applause continues for a long time.

Pomponia is next, playing her role as the ruthless District 2 killer. Caesar presses her about her ten in training, but she keeps tight lipped about it. She doesn't need to say anything about it, not to those who matter. We've all heard the rumors, that she went against twenty-three other trainers and beat them all. Even if it's not true, her brutal conversation about how she's going to eliminate the competition is enough to convince all of us that it is.

The boy from 2 is quiet. Almost shy. He doesn't answer a single question of Caesar's directly, and the applause for him is less than his predecessors. I'm left frustrated. I can't help but think that his eleven in training was a fluke, but if it wasn't I'm sure we'll all find out in the arena. I hate surprises.

The interviews glide along from there. The girl from 3 seems determined to speak in technical terms that no one understands, but she does much better than her stuttering partner. Andromache is fierce and determined, her partner is a heartthrob. The girl from six breaks down in tears halfway through and can't get another word out.

I sit up a bit straighter as Rowenna glides along to the interview chair. She's stunning, her copper hair pouring down her back, dressed in an evening gown made of silk leaves. She and Caesar have a great back and forth that leaves the audience in peals of laughter. When asked about her family, Rowenna describes her sweet mother, handsome brothers, and sisters who love to dance in the soft lawns of the forest.

"They're waiting for me, to join in the dancing again. And I know they can't wait to meet all the new friends I've made here who are going to help me get back home so we can all celebrate together!"

She's met with thunderous applause and I curse inwardly. Blight isn't mentoring this year but Rowenna's interview could have been straight from his mouth. He's my dear friend, and he genuinely likes Cecelia, but I let myself forget that he's fiercely loyal to his own tributes. I can't let that happen again.

Aspen, who insists on being called 'Luckie,' is everything I expected him to be. Arrogant, supremely confident, and seemingly oblivious to the way the Careers are eying him like a wild dog eyes a rat. When asked if he has a girl waiting at home, he boasts that he has seven and that's why he's called "Luckie."

"Well technically eight now," he says as he glances back to Cecelia. Hoots and hollers ring out around us. Cecelia doesn't look at him. She doesn't even blush. I feel a swell of pride.

Luckie returns to his seat after three unmerciful minutes and finally Cecelia walks up. Caesar kisses her hand and she sits down next to him, positively beaming.

"Cecelia Rheys! Welcome! I have to start out by saying that you look devastatingly beautiful tonight. Doesn't she folks?"

Cheers ring out and Cecelia blows a kiss. I get a strange feeling in my throat as I remember that the Master of Ceremonies said the exact same thing about me and I responded with a kiss myself, all those years ago.

"Now, Cecelia, let's start with your training score. You got a six. How do you feel about that?"

"It was exactly what I wanted, Caesar."

"Exactly what you wanted. Fantastic. Why is that?"

"Well, with all the threes and fours and fives this year, no one should doubt that I'm capable, confident and ready to win."

Cecelia gets a huge reaction to this, and I smile, pleased that she remembered her carefully rehearsed response.

"But there were also a number of high scores this year. Even an eleven. Does that make you nervous?"

"I think everyone is nervous. It's quite a show you're putting on!" Caesar laughs. "But the difference between them and myself is that I know the value of a girl keeping her secrets."

"Beautiful and mysterious! Cecelia, I'm excited about you, very excited. You have a secret weapon then?"

"Caesar, you bad man! That's telling!"

Caesar roars with laughter. "One hint. That's all I'm asking!"

Cecelia leans in and Caesar does the same. For a moment she seems about to whisper in his ear and then she kisses him on the cheek."

The crowd cheers and Caesar actually blushes. "Cecelia, you're working hell on an old man's nerves. Your kisses are renowned already!"

Cecelia smiles. "They're not given freely, that's for certain."

I can tell that Caesar badly wants to follow this line of thought. So badly. I mentally remind him of the promise he made, not to ask Cecelia anything about the Red or mention anything from the tabloids during her interview. We must have some sort of psychic connection, because Caesar stumbles on a word and then veers off into a different direction.

"Tell me about your family, Cecelia. Who's waiting at home?"

"My brother, Carl. He has a baby boy. He's already saying new words every day. The last one I heard was "Feek mahn!" It's how he says "Flickerman."

A chorus of 'Awws,' rise up, from the crowd and the host alike.

"I'm sure he'll have many new words when you come home, Cecelia!"

"As soon as I do, I'm going to teach him to say 'Victor.'" Applause.

"Anyone else?"

"My sister, Kerry. I love her dearly. My friends Paylor and Crinoline. Don't worry about me, I can't wait to be with you both again. My step…My mother, Della. She knows how much I care for her. And my father…."

"Your father? Tell me about him."

Cecelia's eyes drift out to the crowd and meet mine for the briefest of moments. "He calls me his angel. And I love him more than anything."

The buzzer sounds and Cecelia walks back to her seat with as much applause as Andromache or the cousins. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"She did well," says Nolan next to me. I nod in agreement. On my other side, I feel Woof tense as Loomer stands and skips over to Caesar, clapping his hands. The boy is dressed in dark trousers and a plain, tight white dress shirt. His simplicity is etched all over his face and I want to bury my face in my hands. I didn't realize how much I had been dreading this interview.

"Welcome, Loomer, welcome! How are you?"

"Happy!"

"Good to hear! How do you like the Capitol?"

"I like it, Caesar! It's lots of fun!"

"And what has been your favorite part?"

"Oranges! And video games! And training!"

"Training?" Caesar raises his eyebrows , something that I'm sure is being imitated by every member of the audience. What have you been doing in training, Loomer?"

"Being strong!"

"Strong? Show me your muscles, there's a good lad!"

Loomer stands and flexes, and I'm astonished to see the muscles that fill out his shirt. Caesar wraps a hand around Loomer's bicep and congratulates him. Cheers and whistles echo from the crowd, and a chorus of female voices breaks out with a shout of "We love you, Loomer!"

I turn towards Woof. "You clever dog. You had us all fooled. Even me. I thought you weren't going to pretend he had a chance."

Woof doesn't look back at me, but I see the smile playing on his lips.

Loomer's interview continues in this vein, with more talk about oranges and pretty Capitol girls and how Loomer managed to throw a spear across the entire gymnasium three days ago. He gets a healthy cheer as the buzzer sounds and he returns to his seat, beaming.

I zone out after that. Districts 9 and 10 are the typical quivering tributes, nothing special at all. I calculate Cecelia's odds in my head. I'm fairly certain she could outlast half the Career pack if she stays out of their way. They don't seem to have a healthy alliance like they have in other years. Ferrus is still the wild card and there's something about Andromache that strikes me as more dangerous than she lets on. I'm certain she can outwit Rowenna, but if it comes down to killing her…well…I may need to send her something to remind her of her father. But she'll do it. Other than that, the only other threat I can think of is the girl from 11 who's being interviewed now. She's gruff, bordering on rude, confident, and comes across as totally ruthless. If I were the betting type, and not a mentor, I would be very tempted to put money on her.

The interviews end with neither of the tributes from 12 making an impression on me or anyone. The anthem plays, we all rise, and the tributes are led off. My fellow Victors stand and move off, talking about last minute strategy sessions and spa appointments and who's going to be appearing at Samson's tonight.

I catch a last glimpse of Cecelia as she disappears behind the stage, walking towards what very well might be the last night of her life. As I make my way out, I find myself thinking about the start of the Games in a very different way than I usually do, in a way I almost don't recognize.

It takes a few long minutes before I realize what's different.

Hope.

* * *

**OMG an update! With my crazy summer work schedule this is almost a miracle! Thanks again for everyone's continued support and follows. Don't forget to let me know what you thought of the interviews.**

**Thanks as always to my reviewers from last chapter: Clove'sAllies, mintjellyfish, Guest, Evaelin, and Anla'shok. If you're reading, please just drop a line to let me know what you think. Only takes a couple minutes and it's the best motivation!**


	11. Chapter 11

Cecelia.

I lay in my bed, staring up at the ceiling. There are no cracks here to watch. There's no falling into the river for me. There's just this room in the Training Center. The bed I've spent five nights sobbing into the pillows. And the enormity of what's coming tomorrow.

It's tomorrow. Oh, Da, it's tomorrow.

"The hard part's over," Cora said as she fetched me after the interviews. And while the whole three hour affair was excruciating. I knew she was just saying it to make me feel better.

I wonder if Kerry will remember me as she gets older. She's only seven, she still has five more years before her first reaping. Will my face fade in her memory, alongside her grief? Twenty years from now, will the mention of my name bring up a swirl of black hair, a smile, a touch, maybe a pang of sadness, but nothing more? Will Carl tell his son about his Aunt Cecelia? Will they take him out to the cemetery where all fallen tributes are buried, lay a bouquet of thistles pulled from the hill that leads up to the Clear? Will they tell him who I was? Or will I just be one more grey tombstone among the one hundred and twelve others on that windswept plain?

And Da…how is he going to get through this? Will he lean on Della for comfort? Is she even capable of giving it?

My stomach twists as I think about my stepmother. There's so much I would tell her now. I wish I would have tried to get to know her better. Maybe there are some things we could have shared. Maybe if I come back, I could take her shopping in the Clear. I'll buy her a new pair of shoes. Leather, brown, like the old oak tree that grows near the train station. She'd like that I think. And I'll buy coffee and we'll sit in the shade of that tree and talk and laugh and Da will be well again and he'll join us and…and…and…

And I bite my pillow to keep the tears inside. But it's no good. They come leaking out and the bright silk under my face is soon splotched and damp. I keep thinking of the boy from District 2 and his eleven. Andromache and the contemptuous look on her face. The twins. Pomponia and the way her sword was a part of her body. Even Rowenna, my tenuous ally. Luckie. Lil. I wonder which one will kill me.

I hope it doesn't hurt.

Most of all, I think of Cora's face as we took the lift up to the apartment. The way she bit her lip and refused to meet my look. She pointed to my room silently as we walked in, a silent command to wash up. We watched the interview reviews in silence, Cora and Agrippina and myself. Woof and Loomer were playing games in his room, and the sound of laughter echoed strangely down the hall. I tried to do as Cora ordered and not think about my district partner, but now a huge well of guilt rises up as I think of the simple, happy boy who needs to die so that my Da can live.

After the interview recaps, Agrippina blustered something about congratulations and excitement and parties. Cora said something to her, I didn't even pay attention to what, but in moments Agrippina was rushing out, a satisfied look on her face. My mentor and I faced each other for a moment, each of us clearly struggling for words.

"Go to the kitchen and fill up," said Cora. "Keep your strength up. You've done well with that. You've done well with everything."

"Thank you," I said, my voice dry. "Thank you…for everything."

"Get a good night's rest. Hector will be escorting you to the arena in the morning."

"Can't you do that?"

She smiled at the faint note of desperation in my voice. "Don't worry, he can only dress you in whatever the Gamemakers provide. No more red or steel. I'll be in the Control Room, where you need me to be."

At this she crossed the room, gathered me up in a fierce hug and said, "Cecelia…you can do this. I really think you can. Just…don't lose your head and you'll be just fine."

She kissed the top of my head and hurried from the room. I didn't see her again as I filled up on a pork sandwich and orange juice in the kitchen, and then I went to bed.

There's a knock on my door, jolting me out of my dark thoughts. It's so light that for a moment I'm sure I must have imagined it, but then it comes again and I pull of the silk comforter. I'm sure it's Cora with some last minute strategy advice, or maybe even Agrippina with some gossip she just has to share, but I'm wrong. I open the door and find an Avox waiting on the other side, a young man with sandy hair and a blank look on his face. He bows slightly and holds out a silver tray bearing nothing but a piece of paper. As soon as I take it he walks away down the hall. I close the door and sink back down onto my bed, turning on one of the lights as I do.

The letter is a simple folded piece of paper with a wax seal. I break it and hold it to the light. I don't recognize the strong, crisp handwriting but the note is clear enough.

_Come to the roof. Games business._

I set the note down. I have no idea who it could be from. Not Cora, obviously. If she wanted to discuss something she would just come to my room herself. Unless she thought someone was spying on us? I'm more confused and afraid than ever. Perhaps it's a trap. I didn't even know tributes had access to the roof. But who would want to do me harm the night before the Games? It's not like I'm a major player, especially since all the heavy betting is centering on the Careers, according to Agrippina.

I switch the lights off and crawl back into bed. I last ten minutes until my curiosity and anxiety wins out. I wrap a silk dressing robe around my shoulders and slide on a pair of slippers before softly padding out the door.

The Avox is waiting for me at the end of the hall. He bows and silently leads me to the lift. We take it up to the twelfth floor, then walk down a hallway and up a metal staircase to a plain looking utility door. The Avox holds it open for me. I step through and he shuts it with a slam. And I'm left alone in the dark.

A warm wind is whipping my hair around my face, but it's pleasant in its own way after so much time spent indoors this past week. The Capitol is truly a spectacular sight. It spreads out before me like a glittering jewelry box, the lights of every color gleaming off the tall silver spires and golden domes. Beyond the massive city, the mountains rise like mute sentinels.

There's a small garden just to my right. I wander among the flower beds and little potted trees as wind chimes clang around me. It's strange to find a place like this in the Capitol. A place that seems peaceful, something that almost feels like it has the taste of home. I sit down on a bench beside a lilac bush and let the scents and the wind wash over my body like a cleansing flood.

"I was beginning to think you weren't going to come."

I leap up. There's a figure standing by the ledge twenty meters away. A cloak with a raised hood hides his or her features, but I can tell that the individual is slightly built, only a bit taller than myself. Another tribute?

I walk towards the ledge, making sure to keep a healthy distance between us. "Show your face or I walk out that door right now and this meeting ends."

Hands unbuckle the clasp of the cloak and let it drop to the ground. I find that I'm not surprised to see Blight standing in front of me, a half smile pulling at his lips.

"Mr. Gavin. You don't really seem the type for romantic midnight trysts."

The Victor from 7 laughs. "Ask Jason. On second thought, don't. I dread to think what he might tell you."

He steps closer to me, then stops, somehow sensing my apprehension. He holds out his hands in a placating gesture.

"You don't have to fear me, Cecelia. I'm here to help you."

I swallow, stalling for time as I try to gather the right words. From what Cora has told me about this man, he's not one to simply offer help out of the blue. Not if there isn't something in it for him.

"In case you haven't noticed, Mr. Gavin, I'm from District 8. I'm competing against your own tributes, your own district. Why are you offering me help? What you do really want?"

"The only people I am against, Cecelia, are the people who threw me into an arena five years ago and are doing the same to you."

"Quiet, please be quiet." Blight raises an eyebrow at the desperation in my voice. "You can't say things like that, not here, or we'll both be dead in the morning."

A smile tugs at the corner of Blight's mouth. "I can understand your concern, but I assure you it's quite safe. The cameras up here are feeding false footage. And the only thing any listening devices will pick up is the sound of the wind. It's handy to have Victors from District Three around, although they originally wanted to make this a safe place for the tributes. We've just…borrowed it for a while."

I look away, processing this information. I gaze out at the city again, listening to the sounds of partying and cheering from the crowds of extravagantly dressed Capitolians far below us.

"I would have thought it would be dangerous to let tributes out here. Hasn't anyone been desperate enough to try and jump?"

"A couple have tried." To my astonishment, Blight climbs up onto the metal ledge, looking down at me. "It didn't do them much good."

The scream is torn from my lips as Blight falls backwards, arms outstretched. I lean over as far as I can, shouting his name, sure that I'm about to hear a thump in the distance followed by the screams of those below us. Instead there's a sharp _zap_ and Blight comes flying back over the ledge. He spins around in the air like one of the tumblers I've seen on Capitol television programmes before landing lightly near me, crouched down and grinning and completely unharmed.

"Close your mouth, Cecelia, before something decides to nest there."

"How…how…" I stammer. "How did you do that?"

"There's a force field below us. It reverses the force of energy and sends you right back where you came from." Blight rubs his shoulders. "It's the best ride in the Capitol, to be sure, but it stings like a bitch."

Tears fill my eyes. I bite down on my lip, telling myself that I will _not_ cry in front of this man. I know that he was just showing off, but his display of physical ability did nothing but remind me of my complete lack of skill. And Blight wasn't even a Career. The faces of the girl from 4 and the boy from 2 swim in front of me. I squeeze my eyes shut, nails digging into my palms.

"Cecelia," Blight's voice is soft. "Is everything all right?" He grimaces when I let out a choked laugh. "You're right, that was a stupid question. Nothing is alright. Not for people like us."

"Why are you here, Mr. Gavin?" I ask. "Just tell me what you want."

"I want you to win the Games, Cecelia."

That gets my attention. I stare at the Victor, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that twenty three children died so that he could be standing in front of me right now.

"But…Rowenna…your own tributes…"

Blight's smile has no humor in it. "If it were to come down between you and Rowenna, you know I would fight to keep 'Wenna alive. She's from my home, she deserves my loyalty and I'm going to give it to her. But…that's not going to happen. She doesn't have the ability to separate herself from what she's doing, and when it comes down to kill or be killed, that's going to cost her everything."

I cross my arms, not sure if I should be offended or not. "And you're saying I do?"

"I know what you were, Cecelia, before you came here. I can't imagine what it cost to do what you did, but I do know it's going to help you tomorrow morning. Wherever you went when you were working in the Red, you can return there for the Games. Rowenna doesn't have that."

"Fall into the river," I whisper. Blight doesn't answer, I'm not sure he heard me. The silence stretches uncomfortably.

"But I don't have the training to win the Games. If you're trying to ally with the winning tribute, why not the boy from Two? Or one of the cousins?"

Blight walks towards me until we're standing next to each other. "Because I'm what they call an ABAC, Cecelia. Have you heard the term?"

I shake my head and Blight continues.

"It stands for Anyone But A Career. It refers to those of us who will do anything to make sure that a Career doesn't win the Games. That includes trying to help out the tributes who have the best chance of beating them, even if they're not from our own district."

I look at him curiously. "Why do you hate the Careers so much? Is it because they volunteer?"

"I have nothing against volunteers. I was one myself, technically, although my district didn't give me any choice. It was either the Games or my life. People volunteer for different reasons. But the Careers, they train for these Games. You know it, we all do, even if the Capitol looks the other way. It doesn't matter what their motive is, whether wealth or glory or the chance to improve their family's fortunes. They train to kill. Not just to survive, to defend themselves, they go in knowing that they're going to kill children and they're ready to do it. And that's disgusting."

I bite my lip. Blight intimidates me at the best of times, and the hatred in his voice only increases my apprehension. But curiosity wins over. "There's more to it than that. It's personal for you, isn't it? Something from your Games."

Blight looks at me for a moment, unsmiling, and then pulls at a chain around his neck. He holds up a battered and tarnished gold locket between his fingers. It rotates, catching the lights of the city.

"Watch my Games when you come home, District 8, and you'll have your answer."

I can feel the flush on my cheeks and am suddenly grateful for the darkness. "And…and you think that I have the best chance besides the Careers."

"You or the girl from Eleven, and Seeder doesn't like me much, so much good that does. She thinks I'm too _frivolous_."

"But…" I twist a strand of my hair around my fingers. "Why me? I didn't score as high as Rowenna, I didn't really make that much of an impression in my interviews, I'm probably one of the least memorable tributes this year. Even if the Careers turn on each other early or the alliance falls apart, why am I the one?"

My voice gets louder as I speak until I'm almost shouting. It's not fair. Blight, like Cora, is a legendary Victor but he's not my mentor, and the fact that he thinks I can win has given me a warm glow in my chest like nothing else has. And I'm almost angry with him for giving me what I'm sure is false hope.

"What's the most important skill necessary for the Games, Cecelia?"

"Killing or hiding."

"Adaptability. The arena changes you. It's unpredictable, malevolent, and the only thing you can count on is that it will surprise you. When that happens, only the adaptable survive. And that is an area where you outstrip any other tribute this year."

"What…but…"

"Don't play shocked." Blight starts counting on his fingers. "You survived the Red with your mind relatively intact. That's no small feat from what Cora has told me. You were reaped and you didn't break down. Your costumes were exquisitely horrific and you wore them with confidence and dignity. You received a mediocre score and during your interview you turned mediocre into mysterious. And to top it off, the entire Capitol found out you were a whore and it didn't even distract you from what you needed to do. Oh sure, it hurt, but you fought on. Cecelia, do you have any idea how rare that is?"

"It might not be enough."

"I'm not saying it will be. You're a realist, as am I. We both know what your chances are, but I'm telling you that yours are better than you believe simply because you have the ability to keep your damn head in a crisis. It's given Cora more hope than I've ever seen her with, and that's worth more than you know."

My head is spinning. I walk over to the garden, my back turned on the Victor. He doesn't follow, letting me have a moment. I'm grateful.

"Okay. Let's pretend…just pretend…that I have the chance you think I do. That I actually could beat the Careers. What does this mean? What are you going to do for me?"

"I have many contacts in the city. I'm a popular man. When you've got my incredible looks and personality, it tends to happen." I don't smile at his joke, and he continues. "I can help Cora get you sponsorship money. You'd be shocked at the people who listen when I tell them who to bet on."

There's a lump in my throat, part hope and part fear. Sponsorship money can make all the difference in the arena, just ask Mitt or Wiress or Connor. But the other half of me is still afraid of what it might cost.

"And what do I need to do, Blight? You may be an ABAC, or whatever you call it, but I'm having a hard time believing that you're doing this out of the kindness of your heart."

Blight smiles. "Clever girl. No wonder Cora likes you. It's not much, I assure you. It's probably something you'd be glad to do."

I pull the dressing robe tighter around my body. "Just spit it out."

"I want you to make sure that Luckie doesn't come out of the arena alive. He may end up coming after you, but if he loses his courage, I want you to track him down and make an end of him. He'll underestimate you. You can do it."

My blood freezes at the ice in his voice, the hollow hatred when he speaks about the boy from 7.

"You're…you're plotting against your _own tribute?_"

"It's not like that, Celia."

"Don't call me that!" I whip my hair behind my head, glaring at the figure whom I had thought was a good man. "It's one thing to help a tribute that you think has a chance to make it out of the arena alive. It's another to turn on your own tribute, to sell him out to someone else! I don't like Luckie, I despise him actually, but what sort of monster would you have to be to-"

"_I AM NOT EAMON!_" Blight's roar cuts through me like a knife of ice. "Do not think that I am anything like him. I'm not. _I'm not._"

The name 'Eamon' is somehow familiar, but in my stress and anger and fear my memory is failing me. "But why? Why would you do something like that? You're bribing another tribute to take out one of your own. At least help me understand, Blight. I know you're a good man. I know Jason would never stay with you if you weren't."

"Jason doesn't know." Blight's voice is filled with a bitterness that I know has nothing to do with me. "There are many things Jason doesn't know. And things he thinks I don't' know. But I do."

He sighs, suddenly looking like an old man rather than someone only a few years out of boyhood. He sits down on a bench and motions for me to do the same.

"The men who came to you in the Red. What were they like? What did they all have in common?"

The answer comes easy. "None of them treated me like a person. Just something for them to use. Well, except for one," I say, thinking suddenly of Tanni. "But he was an idiot."

Blight squeezes my hand. "That's the type of man Luckie is. The crowd he runs with is the one that sold me to the Games so they could bet on me, if that tells you anything. But Luckie is worse. So much worse. He's hurt people. People like you. We don't have a place like the Red in Seven, so men like Luckie will just take what they can, when they can. No matter how innocent they are….or how young."

I look at Blight's storm-blue eyes and am shocked to see wetness. He rubs it away.

"Who was it?" I whisper. "Who did he hurt that you cared about so much?"

Blight gives a sigh. "Her name is Johanna." And I know that I won't get anything more from him.

Blight stands and hold his hand out to me to help me up. "You probably think I'm a bad person, Cecelia. I don't' think I am, not for wanting that bastard dead. But trying to recruit you to help me…well, maybe I crossed a line. So I'm sorry. And now it's time for you to get to bed. I've kept you up far too late, and the last thing you need to be tomorrow is sleep deprived. Good night, and good luck, Cecelia. Oenimus will see you back to your room."

He walks away, picking up his cloak from the ground. A hundred emotions swirl through me, anger and fear and hope and gratitude and he's nearly at the door before his name bursts from my lips.

"Blight!"

He turns and looks at me. I wrap my arms around myself, feeling very small. "I don't think I can do this. I don't think I can kill Luckie. I don't think I can kill anyone! I'm just a kid, Blight. Gods, I'm fifteen!" The tears are coming again and I bite my lip until I taste blood.

He's at my side again, digging in his pocket. "I almost forgot to give this to you. I thought it might work as your district token. Don't worry, I already had it approved."

He holds out a scrap of paper and I take it. It's a faded photograph, black and white, of a young girl a couple years older than me. She's very beautiful, with dark hair, full lips, and a beaming smile.

"Who is she?" I ask.

"Someone you remind me of. You have the same passion, the same determination. The same adaptability. You even look alike. Her name was Charlotte Lourdes. She was my district partner."

I look up at him, startled. "Thank you…I think. But why would you give me a picture of your own district partner?"

"Because Charlie was once where you are now. Determined to fight, determined to survive. But she wasn't made for killing. She was too good a person even to the end. She let her alliance get too close to her, too personal. And when it came down to kill or be killed, she lost everything. First her sanity, then her life."

Blight puts a hand on my shoulder. "Take that with you so that you never forget what happened to Charlotte Lourdes. She was brave, and good. Smart and funny. Beautiful and kind. And now, Charlie is a corpse. Because she couldn't get past the killing. You're like her, Cecelia, but don't be like her in this. Good night."

And with a sweep of his cloak, Blight is gone.

I stand on the rooftop for a long time after he leaves. The wind blows through my hair and I lift my hand, letting Charlie's picture flutter away in the summer breeze. I watch it go and a sense of peace settles around me like I haven't felt since the reaping.

* * *

When the knock on my door comes, I'm already dressed.

The blue tunic and trousers aren't what I'll be wearing in the arena, but they'll be good for the ride there. Blue is Da's favorite color, blue like the summer sky. It'll keep me strong. Or at least it'll keep me together. I hope.

I open the door, my throat tight but my eyes dry. The Avox from last night is waiting for me. We walk down the hall to the living room where Hector is waiting, looking down his thin nose at me.

"It's about time. I have been waiting three minutes already. The Tard is already gone, and the hovercraft is probably waiting for us."

"Don't call him a Tard," I snarl. Hector ignores me as he swoops out of the room towards the lift. I follow, snatching up a sugared jelly roll from a bowl on the table as I go. I make sure to eat messily and noisily as Hector sniffs in disgust. I wonder if Blight and Cora are starting to rub off on me. I hope so, since they both made it out of the arena.

Two Peacekeepers meet us on the roof. The warm wind is still blowing, and I take a deep breath as I hear the wind chimes in the garden. We wait for a silent minute.

"Celia."

The touch on my sleeve is light, but I know it's him before I turn.

"Celia, I'm sorry," says Tanni, his brow wrinkled. I suddenly remember that he's not much older than me. Five years at most. "If I've done anything to offend you, or if I could have done more-"

"You're not to speak to her, Peacekeeper," says Hector. "Mind you're place or I'll report you."

"Bugger off, clown-face," he says. He turns to me and I know he's going to say more, and I know I won't be able to bear it if he does.

"Good bye Tanni," I say, and kiss him on the cheek.

The hovercraft materializes above us and two ladders are lowered down to us. I grasp one of the rungs and find myself frozen in place by a current that courses through my body. I'm lifted off the rooftop and leave Britannicus Romano behind. And the Capitol, and the Avoxs, and Blight, Jason, Caesar Flickerman, Agrippina. And Cora.

I'm all alone now.

Hector leaves me as soon as we board, sitting in a corner and demanding food and wine. The Capitolian attendants offer me some too. I drink only water, and eat bread and honey and sausage. The food turns to coal in my mouth, but I force it down. I need this nourishment. I need to keep my strength up.

The windows are shaded so we can't see outside. Don't want us to have any hint as to what the arena is going to be, I suppose. The ride seems to take hours, but in reality I don't think it lasts longer than thirty minutes. At some point, an attendant sticks a needle into my arm. My tracker, he says, so I don't get lost in the arena. I vaguely register the pain, but my thoughts of Da and Kerry are all I can focus on right now.

My heart leaps into my mouth when a voice chimes out our arrival. We're here.

Below the arena are a maze of tunnels and mechanical rooms. The stockyard, we call it in the districts. Where the chattel are prepared for slaughter. There's a Peacekeeper every thirty feet. I can't help but wonder if any tribute has ever been foolish or desperate enough to make a break for it. Somehow I doubt it. A week in the Capitol is enough to teach us that no one escapes. The Capitol always wins.

My launch room is white and bare. There's a small table with food, but I know I'll never be able to keep more down. The meager breakfast I had on the hovercraft is already threatening to come back up. In one corner is the tube that will lift me out onto my pedestal where the Cornucopia will be waiting. I'll have sixty seconds to come up with some sort of plan to get out of there alive until the gong sounds. If I jump off early, the mines beneath the ground will end my chance for victory in a blast of fire.

"You might as well shower, girl," says Hector. "You probably won't get the chance in the arena."

A small privy with a shower is available for use. I close the door, strip down, and let the hot water run over me. I imagine it washing away all my fear, but fear clings to a person harder than dirt. By the time I step out into the cold, I'm shaking.

I wrap a towel around myself and return to the launch room. Hector is waiting for me. He's holding a pair of black leather boots.

"Put these on," he says as he tosses the boots to the floor.

I look at them in confusion. "Where's the rest of my uniform?"

"That is your uniform, District 8. It's what was provided."

I can feel my cheeks redden, in humiliation or anger I'm not sure. "You're sending me into the arena _naked?_"

"The _Capitol_ determines what the tributes wear in the Games, stupid girl, not the stylists. You'd best put those on before I call a Peacekeeper to force you into them. Trust me, he will not be gentle."

I curl my fists into a ball. "If this is some sort of cruel joke to get back at me for the steel dress, you'd better not return to the Capitol before the Games end. Cora Shutter will have your head."

Hector laughs, a high, reedy sound. "Fifty seven years, and you district savages still can't learn. You talk a good fight. But in the end, it's not me going up that tube."

A voice chimes around us, telling me to prepare for launch. I drop the towel silently pull on the boots but my hands are shaking so much that Hector has to tie the laces for me. He takes my arm and leads me to the launch tube, placing me on the pedestal. The glass lowers around me. I look back at Hector, suddenly desperate for a last look at someone who isn't trying to kill me, but he's already gone.

I shut my eyes as the pedestal begins to rise. For a few, brief, wonderful moments, I fall into the river for the last time in my life. And then the cold hits me.

It does more than that. It bites, searing into my skin like a knife. I open my eyes and look around at the arena.

"Oh no, please no," I whisper. "Not the tundra again."

The wind whips around us, blowing wisps of snow like dancing devils. The ground is flat and frozen, the golden Cornucopia shimmering about forty meters away. The sky is grey and overcast. The clouds seem to press in. There's a fog around the circle of tributes that prevents us from seeing what lies beyond the frozen plain.

The sight of the girl from District 6 to my right, shivering with fear and cold, is enough to reassure me that Hector told me the truth. All the tributes are naked besides our boots. Loomer is farther to my left, looking around in confusion, tears frozen on his face. For a moment I think he's going to step off his plate, but Woof must have drilled it in his head to stay put. Lil is beside him, eyes frantically seeking an escape. Ferrus from 2 is to his right, intent on the Cornucopia. There's no sign of Rowenna. She must be opposite me, blocked from sight.

In past years, supplies and food have been scattered about the ground, the better ones closer to the mouth of the Cornucopia to tempt the tributes into battle. Not this year. The ground is white and bare. The only color comes from the mouth of the Cornucopia itself, where a huge mound of clothes is piled. Jackets and trousers, tunics and gloves. It's clever. The tributes face either the bloodbath or a slower death by exposure. There will be no desperate escapes this year. We'll all head into it together.

"Hey District Eight, I thought I'd have to fight to get you out of your clothes, but looks like the Capitol did my work for me!"

I look over to my left. Luckie is positioned right next to me, his eyes raking over my naked body.

"Scared, Eight? I would be too. I promise it won't hurt, much."

I close my eyes, trying to take in deep breaths as Luckie's taunts tear at me like the wind. I can't do this. _I'm going to die, here. By his hand._

And the eyes I see staring back at me are Charlie's. I feel the strength of Cora's hug around my shoulders.

_Adaptability._ I lean down and untie my boots.

"Being barefoot isn't going to help you run from me faster, slut."

I pull them off as fast as I can, knowing I have half a minute, no more.

"Hey Eight, think your father will still call you angel after he sees me bend you over and-"

I throw the boot as hard as I can. It arcs in the weak light, spinning slowly. Luckie's eyes widen, and for the briefest moment he knows what's about to happen.

The boot lands in front of his pedestal and triggers the mines beneath it. In a blast of fire and frozen dirt, the boy from 7 is blown from existence.

Twenty-two pairs of eyes are all drawn towards me. I see Andromache looking at me with shock, Soren from 5 retch on top of his plate. A thin, drawn out wail pieces the air as Lil begins to scream.

It takes all of four seconds to throw my other boot in the direction of District 6. Only one mine goes off, but the shock is enough to send her stumbling from her plate, and the mines below her do the rest. The echoes of the explosion ring off the side of the Cornucopia.

"Loomer, run!" I scream.

The gong sounds.

* * *

**Let us rejoice, for we have finally reached the arena! Thanks as always to my reviews, Anla'shok, mintjellyfish, and TehNativeAzzy. I know this sounds like whinging, but my reviews have been successively going down recently. Dropping a line just to let me know you're still reading means the world to me.**

**Two down, twenty one to go.**


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